Disaster

I am honestly so tired of perfection. Perfectly polished and painted nails. Perfectly smelling and groomed hair. Perfectly styled, ironed and worn clothes. Perfect white teeth. Perfect answers only. No mistakes. Nothing too much, nothing too little. Nothing confusing, nothing passionate. What about being a mess? Nature is the most beautiful thing and it’s never perfect. What about people with slightly blurred edges, with eyes that glitter and hearts full of cold courage? What about smiles that are never too big, fingers that grip a bit too tightly, tiny black mascara marks under the eyes that are only visible to an attentive spectator? What about imperfect grades and questions that get you answers, not reputation? What about clothes full of pockets full of forgotten things collected over time, what about blueish bags under eyes and feet that are always cold and dirty? I am tired of perfection, for it is not natural. I want to embrace chaos and feed my soul real experiences rather than tailored and well-calculated reactions.

You know what. I want to go on an adventure and not control my life and not know what the next day will bring. I want breathtaking stories and hot coffee and sitting on yachts surrounded by fog. I want old castles with roofs I would climb and old watches and thick emerald grass that would be wet at dawn. I want dirigeables and compasses and trains and going to save somebody but not knowing exactly where. I want yellow candlelight, sleeping by the campfire, people who would be mysterious but also nice, strange ancient cities, tons of new languages, identifying the stars....

I want fantasy adventure. Is that too much to ask for? Or have I been reading too much fantasy as a child?