We are flawed - but is that wrong?

 

We as humans are naturally flawed and imperfect, and therein lies one of our greatest weakness. The mentality of the human conscience to see only what we feel is one of our greatest blights. It limits our progression and ability to achieve a higher purpose by placing mental barriers before us. Furthermore, not only does it stop us from doing what we can achieve, but it changes how we view ourselves.

   Having doubts about yourself or life is a very natural thing, somewhat expected even. However, when those doubts are fed with to much consideration they can suddenly become real impairments within our minds. Looking into the mirror, you begin to forget the things about yourself that you love, and suddenly view yourself only as you feel you should.

   You become so focused on how the world sees you that you forget how very little their opinion actually matters. Because in the end you will never be able to please everyone, no matter how hard you try. The only objective you will achieve is crushing yourself along with any talents and charms that you (knowingly, or unknowingly) already possessed.

    You are not a doll, to be approved of at every turn. You are not going to be perfect, so why are you trying to be? Flaws are the paraphernalia of life. They make us who we are, just as much as our talents and abilities do.

   

Summer & Life

((I have to appologize for the lateness of this post, I've been gone to a family reunion and Young Woman's camp most of the summer. I meant to post this at the beginning of break, but things were just to chaotic. So, here we are; hope you all are doing well! Thank you again for your support, both new and old! It really gives me a confidence boost when writing these posts.))

   It's summer! That one time of year when people desperately compete with each other to see who can get away with wearing the least amount of clothing and contract skin cancer the quickest.
   It may not take you by surprise, but I'm not a huge fan of this season. I prefer long sweaters, skinny jeans, and converse, but in the face of our sudden 96 degree weather those preferences are mere fantasy. To be honest, I don't even like swimming (which is a dislike born of one semester on our local swim team). So my natural reaction to the flushed cheeks of summer, shallow breathing, and steady drops of sweat sliding down my face isn't to find a pool and drown myself in it. On the contrary, I just lay around on my parents' marble flooring in the entryway and wait for death. (Despite what you might be thinking, it's not actually the most comfortable place in the world... It's just the cooler than the carpet.)

   For all of you who live in Arizona, Texas, or other such places, and are laughing at me right now...

      We all have our breaking points.

   So, what has my life been filled with right now? Studying, planning, and freaking out. Sound like a good combination? Maybe not. However, I've been reading and writing quite a bit, which is always cause for celebration.
   (Prepare for a bit of a tirade, it's not going to be pretty.)

   Strangely enough, when I'm not freaking out over something or other, gathering my intellectual capabilities seems to be beyond my capacity. I find myself growing frustrated over the abated pool of words and creativity which normally come so seamlessly to my mind without any real effort on my part. I suppose you never fully understand what you have, until it's not there anymore.
   Though I still have SO MUCH more room in which to grow, I feel like I'm taking a step back from where I've been progressing to recently. Maybe it's the arduous nights spent agonizing over minute grammar instances, or maybe it's due to the stunted flow of my usual reading scheduled. Whatever it is, it's beginning to consume me. I can't stop looking in the mirror and being disappointed with what I see there. I can't help the disparaging thoughts that come to me whenever I take out a pen to work once more on my novel. I'm so tired of feeling that I'm not funny enough, not smart enough, not talented enough, not good enough! It's like a defective arm, a piece of squirming flesh I don't know what to do with. It serves no purpose other than to both torment and hinder me physically and mentally.
   Then there are those times, when I look at myself and don't recognize what I see there. In that instant, there is such a deep unfamiliarity in regards to the face before me that it takes my breath away; it pushes my blood through my veins in a rapid panic. It's electrifying enough to cause the memories to once again surge through my body, but it doesn't remove those few seconds of white hot panic I'd experienced only moments before. The seconds of confusion.
   Who am I trying so desperately to impress then? Because it's not a crowd I write for, it's not a person I pour my soul into striving for perfection. If not that, then who?
   Myself?