An entire lifetime of being an introvert would do nothing to cure you of loneliness, especially when it is winter and crisp and you could die for a cuddle. You can’t even point to a particular person, or a particular moment in time you actually miss: in the end it’s all in the head, an idea that just refuses to be stamped down to death. I’ve been trying to remember (and concentrate all this random heartache on) the most perfect person I’ve known. The effort leaves me at an absolute loss. “Perfect people” are such a marvellous paradox (people being intrinsically incapable of perfection); and the ones you think are the most perfect will inevitably be the ones to disappoint you the most because them you perceived the farthest away from what they really were. At times I can almost believe I’ve spent all my life on perfect people, gathering in handfuls nought but mirrors and smoke.
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If I ever love you – and I might, I might – I’ll be able to point out this post as why.
Hahahahahaha you shall do no such thing, little lady. Perish the thought! :)
Perfection is a matter of perception, you know. And when you get really close to a person, you see that the perfection you saw (at a distance) isn’t really perfection at all – there are flaws and cracks. But everyone is that way, and life goes on. Hug.
Ei-khane-tey eshey poth hariye haye
jolii-r bil-e ghumiye achhey jol kumudi-r ga-ey
I understand that feeling of longing for something that you can’t quite put your finger on. And perfection is overrated anyway; it’s good to have a little controversy, a little imperfection to create greater aspirations.