I thought I felt some sort of sorry for them because they had not tasted the sweetness in my perfection. The perfection you make in great food or a neatly decorated room, the intimacy between instruments and voice.
I walked from a perfectly organized class, with a speaker and an audience exchanging thoughts. I suffer to think this is perfection, I struggle to listen and get into this. My mind keeps going here and there, till i reach an empty bus sitting quietly. I’m not the speaker, I’m the audience and my speakers are the mates in blue, singing “Friday! Sakumono!! Motorway!!, Kasoa Lapaz!! Tema Motorway!!, Ashiaman Motorway!!, Nungua!, Nungua!!, Nungua!!!.They exchange thoughts with me and the others, their gibberish is music to me, I can get into that. I can make beautiful things with their sounds. It Is my perfection yet to the world I shouldn’t be here, I should be within those arranged walls with one speaker, that is the perfection.
It makes me think, maybe I thought wrong, maybe the perfection I see in food, in rooms and music is not their perfection. Maybe for them it is in the noodles that taste bland and the room with the plain bed and mismatched walls and curtains, maybe their perfection is in music that I cannot make sense of; this is their beauty, their perfection.
I think now that maybe they also want a more high sense of perfection but they can’t have it, having made peace with that, they have their very own perfection. I don’t feel sorry anymore, rather I feel respect, for what I can’t get into no matter how i try, someone can, someone can and is satisfied for life.