The truth about being too frail

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Fragility.
We come out in this world and, at first, we see all in pink. We don't see the fear or the tears; we don't notice the grey areas, nor the thin lines.
And as we grow, we tend to think that we own this world. But the truth is we don't and neither does the world own us. 

We are born so pure and we grow to be so cruel, so hostile, so brutal with each other, that we forget that we all become flesh and bones when the night comes. But sure, we keep judging people, we keep laughing and pointing at each other; we look at some other people as if they're any different from us.
We're not.

We're all built the same (or, quite the same). If we press on a bone too much, it breaks. If we pour hot water on our flesh, it burns. So what's really our point if we can break so easily?

To be frail is a gift.

...sometimes we go, and we try, and we suffer, and despite it all, we learn nothing. Sometimes we are left with more questions than when we started. Sometimes we do harm, despite our best efforts. We are human. We are fragile.

 (Becky Chambers)

Being raised in a society in which crying is weakness, virginity is a must, being of other color is a shame, we have the tendency to hide, to mask our vulnerability as if being human means being perfect.

What is 'perfect' anyway? Owning a rich house? Getting married to a handsome man or a stunning woman? Lazying too much without feeling guilty? Eating more without getting fat? Sure, all those sound extremely do-able, and to some, they really might be goals.

But perfection is not even about that. Perfection does not exist. The term has been invented to attribute something that's greater than the ordinary. That something is not achievable by someone or something else. 

So then - what's the point of living if we cannot do everything perfectly?

It's easy. We're just doing it to do stuff, to feel stuff, to enjoy stuff. We shouldn't be even allowed to strive for perfection. Perfection doesn't exist. There is always going to be a missed dot, an astray line, a crazy wrinkle, a stupid baby hair coming off from the hat. 

And no matter how angry we get or how mad we become about this, I think that's the beauty of life. Of art. Of a human.

We're not born to be perfect. We're born to be real, vulnerable, to live our way, create, destroy, and feel good, and do goof.

We are here to be human.

Photo source: https://unsplash.com/photos/rkc85-g-3iE