Why is she so Perfect?
This is targeted, and untargeted at the same time. It’s about one person majorly, but sometimes it’s more. Sometimes I see people similar to that one person, to her. Her? Who was she? She was my friend, the one who adopted me, the extrovert to my introvert, the spoon to my tea, that one was odd, but literally. There’s tea in a cup, but she stirred it alive.
Anyhoo, yes, she was just that. Smile so pretty, face always been beautiful, slim fingers, collar bone defined enough to say enough about her. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not judging books by their covers, though the truth is, even if you’re not a fan of that book, you’d still admire the beauty of the cover, and ironically you might still get it based on that alone.
What makes a book perfect? The cover? What makes a person perfect? Their looks? Well that’s only the start, still a huge part, but only the start. When you look at a smile so nice, you feel your own smile creeping in too. When you look at a crooked smile, your first thought is ‘why are they smiling?’ Your second thought is, ‘it’s hideous.’ Your third, ‘Don’t smile.’
I have two things to say about this:
- It is not projection
- You would not tell Ms. Perfect to not smile, wouldn’t even think it, and in instances where you do, it’s because it looks pretty, not hideous.
For beauty is the first part we shall explore, not why it’s tied to her collarbone, or her smile, or any feature. The first of the two I want to speak on is: it is not projection.
‘I don’t think that.’ ‘I don’t say that.’ ‘That’s a lie.’ It did come from somewhere, major, to minor, micro, and macro. You are the society that breeds it as far as I know.
What defines what’s perfect, and why is beauty a metric? Why do people open their arms for the beautiful much more than those who aren’t, is it because it’s what ideality is, what what’s perfect is?
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This was meant to be a thought-piece in the sense of envy, but I don’t envy, not so much, not all the time. I hold a deeper feeling of ‘Why are things the way they are?’ ‘Who gets to decide that?’ ‘Why do they get to decide that?’ ‘Who am I?’ ‘Who are you?’ ‘What do we make up?’ ‘What is Society?’ ‘What is Life?’
Well, whatever life has been made to be, it is very clear that it is not projection, and it is in the corners within you if it isn’t already outwardly.
Now my second point: You would not tell Ms.Perfect to not smile, wouldn’t even think it, and in instances where you do, it’s because it looks pretty, not hideous.
It is honored, memorable, sometimes even worshipped. Fair. Fair enough. She gets to learn how people react to what they like, gets a pass for what they don’t, simply because of her looks. She could be the most horrible person you met, but because she’s pretty, she’s not. Her insides, character, everything could be the opposite of beautiful, but that won’t matter because she’s Ms. Perfect.
Now this is not who I’m speaking about, my friend was pretty and nice(to whoever deserved it.) She’d befriend anyone she could, converse with them, laugh like they’ve been childhood friends, none of this — pretentious. It’s never been and it’ll never be. She’s just that way, perfect.
I think I’m switching back to what this think-piece was, envy. To be someone who watches someone admired from the shell to within. To see someone who’s perfect so close to you. We all have struggles, no one is free from them, even pretty people, even pretty girls, but is it wrong to say the struggles were also beautiful struggles?
Perfect struggles I must say go with the Perfect people. Why is she so perfect? It’s not so hard to be, is it? Or is it just consumerist propaganda? Is it just us buying into what’ll kill us?
Why is she so Perfect? I still ask myself to this day. I still see her and think, this is everything, not even in the sensual kind of way, not in the admirational way either, it wasn’t clean envy either. A feeling I cannot yet name. I cannot yet gauge.
What would you call the inimitable hate for the idealization of what’s perfect? It’s borne into you, it affects you, us, everyone. Who gets to define Perfect and why is it so? A baby who hasn’t been tainted by the cruel world laughs with what’s ugly, does it not? On the inside and out, that doesn’t matter, it couldn’t begin to matter.
What is so absurd you can’t find a name for it? Hate? No, not quite. It is not borne from envy, not love, not jealousy, just a why… a really frustrating why. Why is she so perfect? What does it mean to be perfect? And what does it mean about me, you, us?
