Under The Sun

Imperfections

I'm not perfect. I'm not even close to it.
I've got imperfections that could fill up a whole room. That could make a person go mad.

For so long these imperfections hunted me. Like sounds coming from each corners of the wall, unknown of its origin but unwanted by the ears. Even as skinny as I am, my reflection tells me otherwise. Or perhaps it's my eyes playing tricks with my mind.

For a long time I didn't want to live in my skin or smell it. I didn't want my kinky hair, I wanted long flowing hair, like all the lighter skin looking girls. Or was it society that convinced my young innocent mind, that this is what I wanted for myself? In the movies the little girls didn't look like me, they didn't speak like me. But who could? I am a child of an immigrant.
Who cares to hear about me ?

My imperfections came in big places and little spaces. Was I African enough to hang around the African community ? Or was I too Americanized to even be called Congolese? It came like a big gray cloud, these imperfections. Stealing the sun from me.

"I'm not perfect, but I live my life aiming to be better than the person I was yesterday." is a sentence I heard a wise man once say. A sentence that changed me, but also cultivated a portion of my soul. A sentence that humbled me, while widening my eyes to the imperfections of the world. Like many things in the world. Perfection is an allusion we created to distract us from our real imperfections.