Perfect
1. Not having any mistakes, faults, or damage

Through the thick, transparent glass lays a world nobody can control. No matter how much we try, we can never control what goes on around us. We try to be perfectionists, especially me, but when it comes down to it nobody ever is. Our imperfections make us who we are. Through my window are imperfections; each one is special in its own way. The way the grass will never be perfectly straight or green, how the roads can’t stay smooth, how all I hear will never be calming. The whoosh sounds as cars drive home from work, the luminescent headlights that glare through my windowpanes, and the unnerving sound of my family. Although my window may only be a thin separation from the real world, it provides me with all I need to know.

I take it slow and savor each breath, while the crisp wind cuts across my face. With each breath I take I close my eyes for a brief moment, and during those moments I am transported to another world. This world is a white blank page, and I hold the pencil. The images only last a few seconds and each one is different, kind of like a dream. I try to re-imagine the one before because it was so life changing, but like a dream it will never be the same. These images feel so vivid, and realistic, but each time I open my eyes again reality strikes and I know what I just was all a fantasy. When I see this blank page my whole body freezes, stuck in time, not knowing what to do or say, for the first time in my life. Through my window I see a blank page, and how I go out onto that blank page affects the people around me.

I control how my image is portrayed to others, by choosing my words wisely, and taking my time with everything I do. At times my thoughts will get messy, and confusing, but I must learn to accept that I will never be perfect. Nothing will ever be perfect, close, but never perfect. At times my life may seem perfect to others, but inside my mind I am at war with myself, and my once blank page will show this. Everyone has a blank page; how they paint it is up to them. Through my window lay the gut wrenching smell of gasoline, glaring sunshine, piles of white snow, and my blank page. To me my page is and always has been empty, but someday I hope to change that, when the time is right, and when I do something worth remembering.

At this point in my life my page is a crisp, flat, fresh, and it’s waiting for me to begin my journey. I don’t think I am ready to start my journey, and that scares me. Just when I thought my page was never going to change, a drop of blood appears, on the top right hand corner of the page. Then another dribble appears, and with each new drip they increase in size. I slowly rub my forehead for any indication of blood, but my head is in perfect condition. So where is the blood coming from? The dripping slowly comes to a halt, and now my paper is soiled in the rich red liquid. Now all that is left to my paper, is blood. All I have to show for my life is blood that I don’t know how got there. Is it my blood, that’s when it all hits me, like a wave crashing over me, pulling me down with the undertow, but one thing is still unclear to me, is my life over, or is it just beginning?