Jeno sometimes imagines being someone else, one of those heroes in comics, whose only mission is to save people, someone who is loved by everyone. ─But unfortunately this isn't how things work. In reality he's just this 'strange boy', who has never...
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PERFECTION. Define this certain word, and try to print an image into my mind. You can't, right? Of course, you can't. Perfection, can't be defined. It is a construct we, human beings, have build ourselves to describe something without any flaws. But what even is that? When you ask me, I would reply "Comics",the colorful world and all the captivating energy they are beholding– For me they are perfect in every possible way, but I bet it's not what you imagine under perfection.
Perfection can't be defined. Every eye has its own way of perfection and that's exactly how it's supposed to be. Every body feels differently and every eye observes colors in their very own way.
Your blue is not my blue and your fear, isn't mine.
We, every single one of us, are perfect. Maybe not in the eyes of other people, but we should be perfect in our own eyes. We should look into the mirror and actually like what we see, we should be able to look through our appearance to the deepest of our souls and be satisfied with what we find there. The real us. – The one who's behind all the facades and lies.
Am I satisfied with myself? I don't even know to be honest, I tend to run away from that question, trying to be someone else. I rather run away from myself than dealing with myself, I rather imagine being someone more interesting and brave than someone who's surrounded by hate and pain. Hate and pain that's all my life is resolving around.
It almost feels like I'm caught in a spiral of insanity, every single day plays in the same black and white routine until I can finally turn off everything. — Until I can get lost in my very own world full of colors and sensations.
Maybe I'm made to be a dreamer, maybe I'm just not made for the real life.
And again, my eyes are glued on the piece of paper in front of me, the pen clenched around my finger tightly, dancing on the sheet and kissing acute lines on it. Voices are echoing in my ears but I'm blending them out as good as possible, concentrating my entire being on only the paper. When I draw I see so much more than just lines.I see a whole world in those lines. The colors and shapes forming to a new, unexplored world, and I'm its creator. -- It's my world, in which I have the control, the one who sets the rules and paints it with colors.
I'm the one who has the power over all the happenings there, and I love this short, certain moment of power. In reality I'm powerless, but there I can smell the addicting scent of power. Even if it's only for a short time.
"Jeno!" The pen loosens around my finger, touching the wooden table and pulling my back to reality in just a second. My eyes find their way to the blackboard, my teacher's voice echoing in my ears. And there goes the power. "Would you come to the front and calculate this please?" Come to the front. I gulp, sweat forming on my forehead and hands as my eyes dance over the task on the board. It's an easy tree chart, something which I could do in just seconds, but all the judging stares increase the anxiety in my body. "Jeno?"
