It is not that perfection doesn’t exist, it’s that it is not allowed. I realized it under the falling rain. It would never be true, because it challenged reality. I realized it while my heart was burning out. I realized it when I walked away in a cold and dark autumn night. I realized it when I got lost and didn’t know how to come back home or which place consider my home or even if I had a home anymore or if there was a time when I had it. I realized it when I noticed you weren’t here, but far away, where I could never reach you. I realized it when I was watching the stars. While I wrote a letter that never reached its addressee and now it’s burning, left in a drawer. When I found out I was dreaming alone. When I realized I had arrived too late again. When faith closed for holidays. When the feeling, forgotten for many years in the trunk of childhood, that my heart was breaking so sweetly that I needed a place to hide away, become smaller and smaller, hold myself and dissapear, lluled by the rain, came back waving hello again. It never could be true, because it was too much perfect for this life.
Sometimes I think about how well the laws of Physics work, the way they predict results, describe processes… everything they control occurs exactly as it was predicted. Sometimes I think about how elegant are Mathematics, the way all that can be deduced from some axioms is a truth with lifetime warranty, complex and abstract structures that form a perfect harmony. Or the mechanisms forming machines, with all those little parts, gears, valves… They’re so complex no one would say that can work, but they do it perfectly. Or simply think about the universe, so beautifully organized that can be consider the paradigm of perfection. Even though it tends to chaos, does it perfectly. Then I think that maybe in our lifes there’s no place for perfection because it is the price we’ve got to pay in order to live in a safe environment, where we can control all the different variables, in which we can trust, governed by some laws we can know and that won’t change. In return, existence will destroy everything perfect in it, like if it wasn’t allowed, like a cancer is necessary to remove.
And perhaps I challenged it. And I knew I had to wake up sooner than later, although when the time came, I begged for five more minutes. I just claimed what belonged to me, what I was told that would belonged to me some day. But it only reminded me that I’m nothing, that my actions are worthless, that sacrifice doesn’t imply a reward, at least in this life. It cut me down to size. If life hadn’t been fair to you, why should it be different to me? You didn’t deserve any of that and neither do I. But here it is. It’s stupid to think that, if you make things right, there will be a reward waiting for you in the future. But you think it. And so do I. We wait for the same miracle, maybe because I’ve got no one and you don’t have a place to go. But not all the suffering in the world concentrated in just one second of life would be enough to make time pay you back.
Everyday I see people with a poison heart who, however, look happier than you and I, who doesn’t look back to what they left, who doesn’t regret and owe nothing, who forget and become forgotten so easily. Maybe it is a delusion, but I can’t help wondering why. I guess it was so perfect that life couldn’t allow it, had to put an end. But, before, perhaps because it didn’t feel good or to make you feel worse, it gives you one last happy day. It always does. A last happy day for you to keep a happy memory of what is going to be taken away. Or to torture you for the rest of your life, to make you burn in the water, ashes lost in the sea forever. I’m still thinking I’m wasting time and life, but any other thing would be worse, would be selling my soul. But time by time, here comes a silver rain, a star followed by a summer storm. Then I have to run away to my refuge and leave myself there, trying to capture thoughts and feelings that slip through my wet fingers and remain, devouring me from inside.