Far from Perfect

I don't think you realize how many drafts I've gone through since Wednesday, trying to get a post up. I mean, this time last month I had twenty-seven blooming posts and now I'm struggling to produce five. There's even a chance that this will end up deleted like the others, because I am simply being rubbish at writing. If you're reading this, erm, hi. Obviously I didn't fail this time.

I work a volunteer job sometimes, and I came back from it an hour ago. It was busy in sporadic bursts, so there was a bit of downtime where I was splitting my time between reading a book called Darkly Dreaming Dexter (it's not a bad book, really. A few years ago I tried writing a character named Vinnialia. Remember her? Maybe not?) and in some ways, Dexter is what I might have dreamed of Vinnialia to be if I had started her now. I think he's amazing. He's so angry, but a twisty-good person. and reading Hayley G. Hoover's blog.

This next bit connects to the rest, I promise, so bear with me.

I've been feeling pressured lately, like I'm not good enough at anything I try, and if I'm not the best, then what is the bloody point in trying? Like there is really no point to me as a person, because I am going nowhere anyway. And that people are going to leave, and I hope that some of them leave nothing but tissue-paper memories that I can promptly set on fire and then dance around, and I hope that some of them take me with them when they leave, and I wish some didn't ever have to leave at all. I miss so many people, and it's not my last chance for the ones I worry about, but it might be. It always might be. Because people will change, and then what do I do?

These kinds of thoughts set my head into a fizz, and I feel like a soda can is all shaken up in my head and ready to explode, spraying orange bubbles all over everything I think. Imperfection. I strive for perfection, but I never do anything perfectly. Humans can't do anything right. And slowly, lately, I've been finding it hard to appreciate anything. I listen for the high note that cracks instead of the rest of the song, I look for the one horrid feature someone's got no matter how pretty he/she is, and I am finding firsthand the simple truth that I learned years ago:

Heroes die hard, because heroes are human. Heroes do idiot things sometimes. They let you down, they act unlike the hero you've come to imagine in your head--because the hero in your head is not the same as the hero out here. People screw up, I've always known that. I've even perpetuated that notion. But it seems like the ugliness of the situation takes over everything, and I forget that there's anything pretty at all. I forget that I have turned a human into an idea, into something that I want instead of something that is. Maybe I just need an idea. A perfect idea, something gorgeous.

That looks like my customary brand of something. I'll publish this one, hmm?