Oh simple things

Try embarking into the depths of the sea. There'll be no natural shimmers or glitters, but with the sight of an oyster bed, it summons what humans instinctively crave for - hope and wonder. At certain moments, optimism turns into felicity as a pearl gets uncovered from the dull shells - a physical trophy. The real beauty lies in the remoteness of the diver's admiration, gratefulness, and quiet expression which may involve a simple nod to acknowledge his discovery. Perhaps the soundproof and darkened water has moulded him to understand what others don't.

I'm always allured to this essence of mystery. A mixture of knowledge, self-awareness and a beautiful form of introversion. Unspoken words will be heard and hidden actions will be seen, innocently making everything real and grounded.

Some argue that our true colours shine during crucial times or when we're at our limits. The opportunity to think in a stable state is decreased, opening a window for us to revert back to our instincts. It is natural to grasp the fundamental elements, hidden deep in our core in times of need. The substance composing this core is unclear to me, but I know that its purity can be unknowingly tainted. "Just be yourself" - a textbook solution prone to misconception, and an advice best heeded only when we're prepared for it.

I do believe this form of purity exists, even today. It is the nature of man to appreciate this beauty of inner perfection. He'll dedicate a personal trust in his judgement on what he sees, but what if he discovers a flaw in it? The way he responds, tilts on the equilibrium of his emotions. If he feels that his trust was betrayed, he'll question his judgement and becomes blind to everything else. While if he chooses to only be disappointed on the illusory perfection, he'll see the major goodness which still remains. If permitted to, I'll choose the latter.

Ah, yes a new calendar. I've not been a fan of a motivational start, thus I'll pay a visit down memory lane. Remember your kindergarten art assignments? I recall submitting repeated drawings of the same old thing.  A house, with two curtained windows, perched on a hill, in the hour of a sunset. Most time will be spent doing the foreground, which is a set of textured wooden fence accompanied by the slight overgrowth of flora. It seems to have a story of its own. One day, I wish to framelessly pin it on the side of a secret pine trail, while placing hope in discovering a similar painting in an untouched meadow.

I've flipped my canvas into an empty page. Last year, I learnt that perfection can never be shown, only discovered. And only discovery itself, defines perfection in this world.