Ah, there it is. I see it coming, the moment I’ve had to wait for.
So what is there to say?
Did I want it to be different?
Did I want an entourage?
Did I want the press?
Did I want something to die for?
Did I want my final words to be clear and loud and profound?
Or did I want to end it quietly, alone,
And have them say that I went peacefully?
I dare not know.
What they shall be, they shall be.
Nothing more and nothing less,
Imperfect.
And that’s good enough for me.
So let’s begin.
My life was different then I could have imagined,
Not one thing entirely obvious, entirely fated, or entirely thought out.
It was not solid, but I was not free.
Life always seemed more viscous.
Not completely clear, or opaque,
It just was.
Imperfect.
There were things I liked, and those I didn’t,
Through my clouded senses.
But I saw those few absolutes that I felt,
Felt wrong, and so now I reject the unrejected.
I abjure the hum of fluorescent light.
That drowns out the thoughts of the few,
The minority voices in the back of their heads,
A hundred lives gone to its tides,
They don’t get to talk.
I abjure the silence of things unsaid.
That both parties know exclusively,
The stifling grasp of rules that neither have to follow,
An awkward dance,
They must see to its completion.
I abjure the thesaurus.
That speaks words are only other words,
The definition in circular logic,
All synonyms of antonyms,
They speak in terms each other does not know;
And again I abjure the thesaurus.
That tells perfect and imperfect are opposites,
The contrast of grey and white or gray and black,
It claims is absolute,
It is wrong.
I abjure apathy.
That is not the point,
There is not just one shade of grey,
Imperfection is not nothingness,
But they don’t care.
I abjure tomorrow.
That it will never come,
The hollowness of this line,
Its lack of existence,
I will never get to be there.
But I’ll leave that to the future.
In the past I lived in a world of one dimension.
Just a posed question,
Yes or no.
Black or white.
Clear or opaque.
Solid or fluid.
Right or wrong.
But what of Grey?
What of viscous?
What of Maybe?
These words are uncertain.
These words are colorful.
These words are Imperfect;
But not neutral.
They are anything,
They are everything in between,
Yes, they are not absolute,
But they are real.
They are made by us.
And of us.
I was Imperfect!
And I understand that now.
So I will not ask for absolution.
In this, my final moment.
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