Perfectly Imperfect

The goal is not to be perfect; the goal is to be accepted for the imperfections.

Writing is good for the soul

I love writing, it helps me organize thoughts and in discovering new ways to observe and experience life and people. While it may seem like an assert to have a relatively high processing speed for cognitive ability, the drawback is a potential huge mass of unorganized thoughts floating in the mind waiting to implode; just like a runaway wild horse in the mind.

Writing encourages the mind to rearrange information and string them into comprehensible context. Writing allows creativity to occur and promotes imagination to leap on the creativity.

Understandably, words mean a great deal to me. Words create contents in my mind and take flight in the most magical way. It is not difficult to guess that my beau plays with words as beautifully as he plays guitar. A poet in his blood, a romantic in his heart, he writes like a beautiful piece of music being played ingeniously.

He just started his blog with the title A flowery band to bind us to the earth, and he sings the introduction with a soft and gentle tune, leaving a light breeze of fresh and flowery air lingering in our minds.

Literary art, like any form of art, does not need to lead to a vocation to be a professional writer. It can be for a simpler motivation to just beautify our world with graciousness. Art is the “buffer” between the harsh materialised world and the fluffy less than tangible dream.

Whatever we choose to do, we are trying to survive this life, and perhaps for some of us, to live it out with some integrity, passion, and grace. Simply, we just want to be happier.

Personally, I take joy from simple bliss, such as waking to an unexpected scene of passionate burst of a sunrise.

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I also take nothing for granted. I must have walked this trail for more times than I indulge myself with stroopwaffles since I have gotten to Denmark in Aug 2016. Yet, I take in all the beauty with the change of seasons, and weathers over and over again. There is hidden greatness in routines; most of us just do not choose to be mindful of the present as it slips by.

I am not much of a planter, and except for the science experiment in primary school (elementary school) to grow bean sprouts in moist cotton pads, this is the only time that I have planted anything. It’s been quite interesting, but I am not sure if they will grow to become flowers.

I continue to take joy from casual doodling – well, morning classes are still not sitting well with me, and I am fiercely struggling to mitigate my sensory processing difficulty while in a class full of loud chatters. I would be able to cope if I had not need to wake in unnatural time and to stay awake while my brain is primarily motivated to sleep.

Art is good for the soul. I write; I read what he writes; I drink visual beauty; I observe plants emerge; I create. Art is like water, it blurs the harsh line of the black ink on paper; it creates beautiful chaos in stern uniform.

I have no intention to live my life big and wild; I love the unhurried lifestyle so that words make no haste to form lovely poems that flavour the otherwise tasteless water.

So, write, only because you can.

 

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