Perfection

Perfection. What is it, to be perfect?

Perfect: Having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be. Ideal, model, without fault, flawless.
To be total, and complete, lacking nothing,

The total package.

A perfect match.

There is no perfection on earth. Only shadows of this magical pretense. Slivers of the perfect being.
Truth be told we all know that one person who is the closest thing to perfection we will ever see.

I've been called a complete waste of life, trash, evil, and many, many expletives...

I've also been called a goddess, gorgeous, could be an alt. model, the most perfect person on the face of the earth...

I couldn't possibly deny or confirm any of these claims. Perception is key. If you caught me on an off day you may think badly of me, if you are insane you might ignore that I'm a person altogether, if I give myself wholly to you perhaps you will think of me fondly.

Sometimes proving you're worthy isn't worth it at all.

If you are, congratulations. If you don't feel you are the closest to perfection you can be, work on it.

Didn't get a good education? Online classes.

You were neglected as a child? Surround yourself with loving friends.

Selfish? Lazy? Hateful? Fix it.

You can be the biggest obstacle in your journey to perfection. Sometimes letting go and smiling can take your day from hell to bliss. People aren't open to tolerating others feelings and problems, don't waste your time feeling hurt by that, wait for the ones who will care.

Some will never care and you'll only suffer trying to change that.

Perfection is personal, there is no universal image of perfection. God, of course, but with humans, it is relative.

Who in your life is perfect?  

Thought

 
   He lay, flat on his back, in his white undershirt and plaid pajama bottoms, bare feet and a wet head resting on a thick, lumpy pillow.
 
  Today had been exceptionally stressful and now it was time to relax. He was relaxing, to the point of nonchalance. Nestled on the worn coverlet his hands traced the familiar stitches up and down the diagonal pattern, while his eyes flicked back and forth from the street lamps' hazy orange stream to the blueish flashes coming from under his door that meant the neighbors were still watching television.
 
  He blocked out most of the street noise, but decided to filter in the noises of the apartments only acception to the "no pets" rule, Bernie the Parakeet. Bernie shuffled his clawed feet back and forth endlessly in his shaded cage.

  Slowly he closed his eyes and let numeric figures float before his minds eye. Unsolved and unresolved issues became impossible equations, and people no more than checks and dots on the scrap of paper that was his thought process.

  A cry from Bernie jarred his focus and his eyes opened. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, got up and took the still squawking bird from its cage. He began to stroke Bernie's tidy sun yellow feathers with gently curled knuckles.

  His eyes felt heavy and he obliged by letting them slide closed, only to let the numbers back in. Chirping and whistling, Bernie forced his eyes back open and drove the signs away with a, "Whatcha doin'?".

  "Hush..." he whispered, more to himself than the bird...

Bernie

    A high squawk followed closely by a, "Whatcha doin'?", is the greeting from Bernie. His proud feathers cocked high above his head as whistled, asking not to be put to sleep, blankets being draped over his cage with a chuckle. 

  

   "Nightnight, Bernie." The boy smiled, he replied with another cooing whistle and "Whatcha doin'?". 

  

 "The truth is, Bernie, I don't know. You constantly ask me that, surely not because it's one of the only sentences you know, but because you really want to know what I'm doing... With what? My life? My dreams? My aspirations? To tell you the truth, Bernie, I feel a little lost. Don't be disappointed, I haven't quit, I'm finding my way. It just takes me a bit longer than others, I can be slow like that. 

Aaaand I'm talking to Bernie again..." Confucius laughed tiredly and stood, crossing to the coffee machine that had overflowed during the brewing process. 

 Cleaning the mess and pouring a mugful of cold, black coffee, he headed off to bed sipping the thick liquid, not attempting to avoid the grounds mixed in.  Thoughts of capture and oblivion fill his mind as Confucius drifted off.

Drawings

  Once again, apologizes for the absence, I have been harried with work and other activities... Though I have had some time to draw and write a bit. I am including a few of my before and after pictures below.

          

       

        

  Let me walk you through my thinking process on these pictures. With my limited knowledge of drawings I attempted to make my characters, which I pictured so vividly in my minds eye, and it did not end well. 

  

  I didn't let that stop me though and, with the rare exception, I have drawn everyday this year.  

  

  The first picture is of one of my older and favored characters, Reece Reeves. My original intention was to give him a "bad haircut" look... As you can see that did not go well. Both of the original pictures are from the beginning of this year and the other two are from this past week.  

  

  Now the second picture is one of my other characters and it's actually a gender bend, my original Babylon is male. Babylon is a fabulous fashion designer and she turned out much better than I anticipated (as did Reece, honestly).

 Tell me if you liked these pictures and I may be tempted to share more. If you draw I'd love to see some of your work (with the exception of lewd content, thanks)! 

  I have had time to write as well and if you'd like to, I'm posting my new piece on the blog I share with my friends, Brilliant Morons. I'd love it if you'd click the link below and take a peek!  

  

http://brilliantmorons.blogspot.com/2015/12/numbers.html

My Window

          I see many things through my window, my view is sublime. I see rolling white clouds in the indigo sky over rich earth-toned mountains, lined with thick green, yellow and red trees.
   
         The graying and black clouds come too.. Overshadowing the now darkening mountain and blotting out the simple beauty of the sun's golden rays. All is void and muddied in the closely falling raindrops, that splash on and make the mountain's slope weak and crumbly. A landslide occurs shortly after the rain begins, taking hunks of mountain, trees, and animals in its tumultuous descent.   Deaths greedy mouth is open to all.

          The dawn brings new life and the warmth of an apologetic sun. It burns blindingly to compensate for its absence, bathing the earth in glittering dewy light. Every fallen raindrop, whether  in a puddle or solely displayed on a tree's leaf, is shining like a diamond. As an enormous mirror they reflect the sun's wondrous light.
       
          Though I behold all from my window, I can never go out and run through the meadow to the mountainside's shade in the heat of summer, or dance in the wet relieving thunderstorm of fall, nor splash in the muddy aftermath... For the window I look out is barred. Caging me in this dank prison cell, keeping out the earth.  The persistent return of the sun never rejects me, it covers me in its warmth, however "unworthy to be living" I am. The day draws to a close. the fiery red and orange sun slips lower on the horizon, my pen slips from my weak hand, my tired existence ebbing away..

           Perhaps they will bury me beneath the shaded mountainside... Yes... I hope they will... 

New Blog Alert!

If you have enjoyed my blog at all, you will be thoroughly immersed in joy when you read Brilliant Morons.
You may be asking yourself, just what is "Brilliant Morons"? Let me explain.

Brilliant Morons is a blog me and two of my closest(ONLY) friends created quite recently. It will consist of poetry, art work, tidbits of stories, role playing, and other creative thingamajigs, that come to our minds... Well their minds and my carpet...
 Our blog is here on Blogspot, check it out if you are interested! www.brilliantmorons.blogspot.com 

Confucius

He typed at a fast pace but not hurriedly, he of all people would never rush his work. This time he’d picked a nice little coffee shop to complete his work in, no one every looks in the extremely mundane places. His speed and accuracy is vital to his career. Freelance criminal. From the mafia to lowlife scum came to him with schemes, and whether good or completely idiotic he took them, well for the right price anyway. They all knew him as Confucius. Even his government file, a slim one ironically, had only his alleged date of birth and his fake name. There wasn’t even a photograph of him. No one knew what he would look like from day to day, no one could track him or frame him, he was thorough. Between his intricate accents and his frugal disguises he could be anyone, anywhere.

Confucius was finishing a neat job for the mafia, all that was left was to cover his tracks. He wiped his laptop clean with a total reboot and sat waiting for conformation on his pay.

Of course he’d already secured his money in one of his many bank accounts but he still had to wait for the mafia to meet him and tell him the obvious, Mission accomplished.

He rarely met with his employers but tonight was different. He was curious to see who the mafia would send to meet him. So he stayed in the shop and waited, sipping a latte.

Tonight Confucius had on a brown wig and fake bushy brows, colored contacts (also brown) and a false nose completed his costume. He wore loose cargo pants, a sweat shirt, and an overcoat. Luckily the night was cool and he got away with wearing a pair of gloves as well. Simple but effective. 

A short man with squinty eyes and a pair of thick circular glasses entered the coffee shop at a quarter to 10. He hobbled to the counter and ordered a drink, putting his overheated laptop in its case Confucius waited for the man to join him. The small man shuffled over to his table and sat opposite him.

“Good evening, Confucius.” He rasped in an attempt to mask his thick Irish accent.

“Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” asked Confucius with a slight English inflection.

“McHale.” The man drawled.

“What does the Head say, McHale?” Confucius asked with no urgency or nervousness.

“Success. We will call upon your talent in future.” McHale said, sliding him a slip of paper across the table. On it was the code an average person would need to access the money due. Confucius however had no need of it, but pocketed it anyways.

“If I am needed I will assist.” Confucius said rising.

McHale nodded silently and Confucius left the coffee shop.

There, he’d met with success yet again. He made his way through the sleeping city to an apartment complex squished between a pizzeria and a convenience store. He slouched in the building nearly dragging his computer case on the floor. He leaned heavily on the walls and made slight groaning noises as he heaved himself up the stairs. In the dim light you could make out that he’d swapped his attire, replacing his brown wig was a slick white one and in place of his brown brows, unkempt grey ones, he’d done this during some point of his commute.

His laptop case touched each stair as he awkwardly climbed them to the second floor.

He fumbled with his apartment key and after a moment of grunting and jabbing finally fit it into the lock, another long minute passed as he struggled to turn the skeleton key and open the door. Once inside with the door locked and bolted, Confucius removed his coat sweatshirt and pants. Underneath that he wore a white undershirt and thin pajama pants. He sat in front of what most people would call a vanity, but was his number one work station. On the vanity was face paints, hair brushes, combs, powders, sprays, colored contacts, wigs, hair extensions, oils, lotions, salves and more. All spread out on the vanity and on the surrounding shelves that he installed, mainly to hold the wigs, but also the accessories like fake noses and ears, also the finger prints that he’d replicated to frame certain persons. Removing the grey wig from his head with care, and the brown one from his laptop case, he put them on their appropriate manikins. The brows had to be pulled off gentle or they would be ruined and he had to remove his bald cap as well. Some think you can wear a wig on top of your hair but Confucius knew that it would simply slide off unless you wore the proper equipment. He placed the brows in a container and stared at himself in the mirror. It was on a rare occasion that he saw his own face. He had in-between length blonde hair, it wasn't long but it wasn't short and it stuck up just a little from his head. His hair was thin and if you ran a hand over it, it would bounce right back up. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, if he walked around without a disguise on he’d be captured within a few business days.  What would surprise most people was that Confucius looked like a high school student. He had no facial hair and was slim and boyish, he couldn't have been out of his teens, and yet here he was an infamous criminal. 

Enjoy!