We Died Where Roses Grew

This is a guest post written by Opheliac. She is an outstanding writer and one of my personal favorite bloggers that I’ve come across on WordPress. Please take the time to read this post; I’ve also provided the link to her blog so you can see her other excellent posts.

We Died Where Roses Grew

I believe in the beauty of imperfection. When I first opened my eyes into this world you were there, holding your hands carefully cupped around my heart. In that moment I wondered why your brows knitted together, why your lips formed a straight line. Were not humans supposed to smile? Weren’t their mouths meant to form a circular shape that normally expressed happiness? Then what it was that darkened your own soul while creating the love, the woman that would suit you best? Was I too frail?

I do not believe I was fragile, the strength of my fingers surprised me as I sank my nails into the ground and gathered sand underneath. But you did not mind my childish gesture. You just stared at me in curiosity as if you were not completely convinced your craft was truly perfect. I understood. I knew the reason behind the disappointment in your eyes. I was designed to share the same eyes, the same beliefs as you, to never establish a life for myself that did not involve the presence of my creator.

As I stood there, in your arms, motionless like a rag doll I discovered the briefest of pains in my chest. The blood pumping organ began running, provoking a sharp sensation throughout my circulatory system. I asked you to explain to me the feelings I was experiencing and you just shook your head, burying your face in my hair. Your whole body tensed when you sighed. I was a failure. I suddenly felt roses layering around my entire body, caressing me with crimson smoothness while plunging their thorns in my skin, adhering to the insides of my flesh. It hurt. At least I think it did. The emotion in itself was not pleasant, I knew from the way I was trembling, from the water flowing from my eyes. You told me that crying is normal and I pushed you away, shouting my desperation.

I demanded that you change me, that you build me again from the scratch and you refused. You denied me the right of improving who I was because despite your efforts I would never be perfect. Having flaws was a natural trait of our nature and yet all I wanted was for you to see me stripped of errors, of mistakes which you considered you made while giving me a form.

A faint smile finally sneaked across your lips and your hand reached out but your fingers met nothing but air. I was gone, I knew better than you that perfection was not what you needed. Your genius required someone with a fiercer will, a stronger heart and a love that was born, not manufactured.

The Perfect Woman

Locked away in my dark chamber to escape the imperfect world, I sought to construct the perfect woman. I wanted total control over how she’d look, act, and think. I gathered a collection of materials to bring this creation to life. I had everything that I needed to create the perfect true love who’d accompany me to the grave.

Starting from the inside, I installed a brain capable of individual thought, but also a chamber for like-mindedness so that we’d share something in common. We needed to like the same things and we needed to have the same feelings for each other. Included was a personality that I’ve long searched for in a woman. It was something that would truly reflect what she looked like on the outside. I was sick of being deceived by beauty, only to learn that she was a monster on the inside. On the inside, we were totally compatible.  The heart I gave her thumped excitedly, practically mimicking my heart’s exact tone.

I sewed her up and began work on her physical features. She needed the necessary features to compliment her impeccable personality. I gave her brown hair that stretched a few inches past her shoulders. I also gave her hazel colored eyes to match mine so that we could see the world together as one. Her body was difficult to build according to what I saw and thought of as perfect. If she was too big, she’d probably succumb to the media’s idea of a perfect body and torture herself to frailty. If she was too thin, she’d also fall prey to the media as before, therefore dangerously trying to have a perfect body. I’m giving her something in between, hopefully something that she can be happy with. I want her to be totally satisfied with who she is on the inside and out.

I made her out of the assumption that we’d be together and share a love that is undefined for the rest of the world, but defined by our own standards. With my own hands and standards, I’ve created a woman I deemed to be perfect.

Needless to say, there were complications.

I’ve made the mistake of playing God, constructing a woman who I thought was perfect. She wasn’t something that she wanted to be; she had no choice whatsoever because of me. I made a woman that was forced to love me. I made a woman that doesn’t even exist in this world.

Perfect doesn’t exist.

I’m living in an imperfect world and I was under the impression that if I couldn’t find perfection, I could create it. I was wrong. I’ve even come to the conclusion that my creation is imperfect.

I am no longer going to play God, and I am no longer going to search for perfection. I’ve begun my search for love and beauty in the realm of imperfection.  Whoever she is, she’ll be perfect for me.