Everything in this house is electric, except for the condition of my soul.
The oven sparkles pure white, except for a few scratches that reveal ashen gray underneath the exterior. All sorts of cords hang out of this electric oven. I wish I could take one of the cords and plug it into my heart to jump start something within myself.
I water the outdoor plants to give myself a reprieve from all the electricity. I drop the watering jar over the fence as I reach for the hanging basket.
“Fvck it.”
Another reminder of my imperfection. I didn’t mean to drop my watering jar, nor did I mean to swear. The more imperfect I become, the more frustrated I become with myself.
As if swearing at myself will make me feel any better.
All of this imperfection weighs heavily on me. What is my imperfection compared to another person’s, and why do I think of it as so much worse? Perhaps it’s the striving that’s the sin. Perhaps the imperfection is the point. It’s the feeling of the weight of glory.
Somehow this imperfection is more electric and gratifying than anything humans can create. We are all guilty of nice, clean exteriors. Nothing can jump start us into action, not all the cords in the kitchen.
Perhaps the only thing that can jump start this soul is a simultaneous abhorrence and appreciation of each individual’s imperfection.
Gwark.
