To Touch The Sun


Always so close, I reach out and try and touch that perfect ball in the sky, but as it seems, it still slightly out of reach.  When will I be able to grab it and make it mine, when will I touch it and finally obtain perfection? Will these waxwings hold up long enough to reach, or will the sun always be meant for those who were born to touch it?

I know the notion of perfection is more of a novel pursuit than an achievable goal.  Even when I get there, I will always think about how I could have done it better or where the next bar is.  Then again this type of thinking might be keeping me from achieving my elusive desire.
It confuses me, in my humanity, I find the varied levels of flaws that make us beautiful but see the skill and determination to overcome these flaws to achieve something real.  Watching practiced experts and driven people accomplish these feats of seeming perfection only to fall short constantly myself and fall into frustration.  Like the analogous frog at the bottom of the well, wondering how much to jump before I learn to fly.

Truth is, I screw up way more than I would like.  Fall short, and never entirely getting there, this repeated failure is starting to gripe on me.  It’s frustrating me to no end that I can never get through anything without making a mistake.
Maybe it’s practice I need or patience.  Maybe it’s confidence or talent.  Maybe there is something inside of me that keeps me from achieving this ridiculous goal, and that something was embedded in my very soul. I just don’t know, and it shouldn’t bother me, but it does.  Why can’t it just be 100% right, why must there be cracks and nicks in these foundations?  How can I build if I know that at any given moment it can fall because of my mistakes?

I feel fractured, weathered, and worn, like a forgotten statue beat by the sands of times, eroding and missing pieces so its once true self is lost and all you can see is a resemblance of what could have been.  I know this is dramatic, but this seeping frustration kneads itself into my heart.

It is an unrealistic standard that will only play as a detriment to my future. If I am only worried about perfection, then the mountain of work will become sheer and unclimbable because each move will be individually meticulous. It’s always about that balance because the sky is not only filled with the sun but also the cloud. Clouds which are formless and beautiful in their own right.  I want things to be perfect but choosing where to put this effort to reach out, and where to let the wind take me is all part of life.


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