Every time we walk out the front door, we are on display. We are critiqued by the harsh stares of others like us. Others just as imperfect as we are. We are criticized for the way we look, the way we dress, the way we act, and the way we feel. We've been programmed to think these harsh thoughts; we can't even help it anymore.
If we see so many flaws in ourselves, the imperfects, then what do we consider perfect? We have fabricated these perfect beings and set them behind a wall of glass, keeping out those flawed individuals who stare with eyes full of envy. The perfects remain still, overlooking the imperfects as they walk by. The glass muffles their criticisms.
When certain perfections become outdated, the perfects are replaced with newer models, unaware that they too will be tossed aside and discarded just as the ones before them.
This cycle continues. With each new generation, the perfects become more and more monstrous. Many of the imperfects attempt to steal the image of these inhuman creatures. Their greedy claws rip at their own flesh. Little by little, piece by piece. These flawed beings cannot see what only the perfects know, the perfect's imperfection.
The perfects do not move. The perfects do not breathe. The perfects do not truly exist. These perfections which we have crafted cannot even exist in our realm. That is their flaw. That is our downfall.
By attempting to obtain their image, we are, in turn, denying who we are. Tearing away at the flesh that binds us. Scratching away at the soul that sustains us. We become uglier than we've ever been. This grotesque being consumes our soul, consumes our flesh. It bursts forth from our shells and leaves behind only desiccated skin–husks of who we really are…who we once were.
We are kicked aside to make way for a new breed of imperfections, a new wave of ideals. Forever searching. Forever grasping. Our flaws forever on display.
