Sober Bubbles

Nothing.

Am I perfect? No.

Would I want to be? Why would i?

Who’s perfect? According to whose criteria? And what’s the point of « perfection », anyway?

There’s beauty in wrinkles, and uneven skintones, and scars. There’s soul in every little crack in somebody’s voice, soul in other unpredictable traits. I love old family pictures, with the kids making funny faces, and wearing ugly sweaters, and having their hair all over the place. I feel for all these kids who unlearn how to be in the moment from an early age. I feel for all those teens who wish they were their instagram filters. Maybe, your mouth is a little sideways. It’s interesting. Maybe, your face is easily flushed. It’s your body doing its thing. Maybe, your hands are big, or tiny. It’s you being you. It’s you being unique. It’s you being real.

How about my mistakes? « I wish i did… I wish I said… »

Thanks god for them. Thanks god, I’ve been immature, and stupid, and weird, and lame. Thanks god I tripped on my own feet. And got back up. And tripped again. Thanks goodness I’m learning everyday. Prevents me from being boring. What would I do if I didn’t have anything to learn, anyway?

Imperfection is life being lived. And life is sacred.