If my ‘write daily’ challenge had been about writing my book daily and not my personal blog stuff, I guarantee I would have learned 2% of what I’ve learned about myself with the current venture. I would have also finished my inevitably-shit-burger book but whatever/tangential.
Granted, I have had an excessively fun day (we dragged an all-lives splerp on facebook and y’all it was fabulous; I highly recommend), but euphoria aside, I must tell y’all that sometimes perfection sits.
It sat in the reality that my beautiful, genius, inspiring, friend got several white women to take down an all-lives white peep just because fuck no. And it wasn’t due to her asking anyone; it was all immediate, volunteer-style. It was an impromptu yet nonetheless deliberate NO that existed because of how they cared for her and how that enabled them to hear her and how that led to their growth. (I count myself as one of those white women, but am unsober and have thusly gotten weird about grammar things. K bye.)
It sat in the weeping hatred of my post about stigma, and the hopeful love I wanted to share. It sat in me being heard by Jack and T1s that entered my comment thread with their lives. It sat in the realities I invited, purely because I finally wrote a thing that was a different shade of honest.
It’s not that I’m ever deliberately dishonest. I have this issue in music, too, if that’s any consolation. I know what things are supposed to be, and that awareness has allowed me to skate, school-wise and job-wise and relationship-wise, even though the me that I contributed wasn’t the actual me. I tend to realize the lapse in the comfort of that perfect sit only after I have been notably uncomfortable for an equally awkward length of time.
I think, every so often, the stress piles, and my reality sticks to whatever truth I last relished. Even if that truth is dead, or worse, disproven. I think that I let it marinate and then I love the well-seasoned reflection too much to let it roast with the haunch.
I think I only realize the next layer of truth when it eats my heart at 3am, and rips tendon-free holes through my cheeks and my lungs, and screams itself into my once-favorite-almost-dying opening of a Bach Andante or flings itself into a bit of prose I didn’t know I needed.
I think, sometimes, perfection sits. And sometimes, it sits, waiting, in the quiet corner you used to frequent, watching you, smiling, eyes creased, chin kind; waiting. And sometimes, it sits, in the phrase you didn’t feel when you started it, the crescendo you didn’t realize was your entire future, the three lines of startling clarity that unmask your unintentional dishonesty and leave you.
For whatever violent beauty besets you next.