Difference

Something lies, something lies in between the accents of what if and almost, almost as if there wasn’t such thing as perfection. But if that was true, then reality was a bit more distant than I could allow it to be. It didn’t hint of glamour or gloss. Rather, everything was just matte, everything just fell flat. If I could, I would, you know that I would. But to be is to try; let me dare to prove Yoda wrong, because when you’re different, you don’t have to worry about perfection. How can they quantify the optimal when there’s just a sample size of one? To be unique is to not worry about the competition. So no, I don’t think Yoda thought about that at all. To play the game of effortlessness took too much effort to even bother. You had to be careful to avoid being careless when you’re out to prove that you couldn’t care less. It was always easy to find the spectacular in the now — they shone fantasy on the mundane backdrop of reality. Talent always was supposed to trump dedication, or so they told me. In actuality, talent rotted, rude and bitter, in the lines of what if and almost, too stuck in the imaginary to recognize that potential energy was always theoretical and never counted, not really, not where it matters. Someone needs to pull back the curtains, rip the bandage that praised valor over value. Perfection is only found in the consistency it takes to whittle away wood, to refine marble, to turn another page. Let the heroes take the stage — they’re always in danger of falling off the edge anyway.