I turn 27 tomorrow and I have a confession to make. I am an imperfect human.
I am not a great looker and my sense of style is perhaps misplaced. I am not an exemplary cook nor am I a prominent name in the profession of my choice. If I were to decide the course of my life, I would fail miserably at it for I know not where my heart really lies. One day I want to be a master homemaker and the other, I want to be the most successful person there can ever be. I define the word fickle and push it a new level each day. But it is okay. It is okay that I look at the timelines of all the 1000 friends I have on facebook and think about how perfect their lives are on paper. It is completely fine, that some days I choose someone else’s life as a comparison scale for what I should live like. I am only human. And I am vain as most humans can get. Sometimes less, sometimes more. We have all been there. Our virtual realities overpower the sense of our real selves, and no matter how many clickbait websites tell you that ‘facebook infused depression’ is a disease, trust me it is not. It is in our nature to be jealous, to be happy and sad, all at once when a friend gets engaged or promoted. We have been gifted the ability to feel, and to feel a hundred emotions at once. Then why create a pathological parallel universe and bracket yourself as abnormal, when our reactions are as habitual as breathing and sleeping.
But we are not all a whirlwind of crazy. We are loving and silent and loyal. We are practical and dreamy and loud and very accommodating. Sometimes, all at once! I know I am. A single personality trait hardly ever defines me and I have gotten it checked, it’s not a psychological condition. My heart and the head are always in a tussle and there is never a clear winner. There can never be a winner for what is right for the heart need not necessarily coincide with what the head wants. And that’s just about fine. Because if everything could be figured out in no time at all without us putting a decent amount of effort into it, failure and wisdom would be redundant. Wouldn’t they?
We are a mixed bag of imperfections and that is what separates us from the rest, that is what motivates us to be unique. In every way, we are unique. Paradoxically, we are one.
In our imperfect perfections, we are all one.