Entre la vie

Lately, I find myself cradling the quiet, tender beauty of imperfection, like a seashell with a crack that lets the ocean whisper through. There’s something sacred in the flawed, as if life itself presses its fingerprints into the things we often try to smooth over. The more polished the surface, the less light it seems to hold. Perfection feels like a glass room—clear, cold, untouchable. But imperfection? It’s the soft, worn quilt that smells of rain and memory. It wraps around you. It breathes.

This isn’t just an observation—it’s a call. To the beautifully unfinished, the wonderfully lopsided, the gloriously real.

Think of mismatched socks—one striped like a candy cane, the other dotted like a starry night. They’re little rebellions against symmetry, tiny declarations that we are not made for neatness. My eyes? They’ve long been a mirror I wasn’t sure I liked looking into. So I made them a canvas. I mismatched my colored contacts, turning hesitation into art. And people noticed—not the imperfection, but the boldness in it. Compliments bloomed where insecurity once took root.

When I write, I don’t carve words like stone. I scatter them like seeds, letting them fall where they may. If a piece feels finished, then it is—not because it’s flawless, but because it holds a moment, imperfect and alive. And if another version comes tomorrow, that too will be enough. Because life isn’t meant to be a final draft.

I find beauty in the half-eaten croissant, buttery layers flaking like soft golden secrets on a café napkin. The blurry Instagram video, the one that shakes with laughter and bad lighting but somehow feels warmer than a staged, picture-perfect shot ever could. The singer who forgets the lyrics mid-verse, lets out a whispered “oh fuck,” and smiles into the microphone, reminding us that the best performances are the ones where the soul peeks through the cracks.

I fall in love with the waver in a friend’s voice when they’re speaking from their heart, the tremble that says this matters. The beauty in someone mixing silver and gold, as if their jewelry box is a universe with no rules. Wearing a shirt backward and pretending it was intentional. Messing up your eyeliner and deciding to turn it into a new shape, like chaos crowning your eyes.

Freckles—those constellations scattered across cheeks and noses—each one a star on skin’s canvas. A chipped mug that fits perfectly in your hands, its flaw making it feel more like yours. A home that looks lived in, where pillows slump from long conversations, books lean against each other like old friends, and the air smells faintly of something cooked hours ago, still lingering like a ghost of comfort.

There’s poetry in burnt toast and over-salted soup, in the lopsided birthday cake that leans dangerously but carries the weight of a wish blown into the frosting. The old sweater with a hole in the sleeve, worn not out of neglect, but love. The vinyl record with scratches that skip in familiar places, turning songs into personal soundtracks only you know how to follow.

Even in relationships, it’s the missed calls, the clumsy apologies, the awkward silences that stitch us closer. It’s the love letter with crossed-out words, the text message sent too soon or too late, the imperfect timing that somehow still leads us to the right person at the wrong time—or maybe the wrong person at the right time. And that’s okay. That’s beautiful.

It’s the road trip that veers off course but lands you in a town where the coffee is terrible, but the sunrise is unforgettable. The rainstorm that drenches you in the middle of a perfect day, leaving you laughing, soaked, and alive.

Imperfection isn’t just a flaw to be forgiven—it’s a language, a texture, a rhythm. It’s the heartbeat of everything worth remembering. So here’s to the uneven brushstrokes, the unmade beds, the out-of-tune melodies. Here’s to the cracks in the walls where sunlight sneaks in, to the stories that don’t have clean endings, to the hearts that love with all their broken pieces.

Let’s not just accept imperfection—let’s celebrate it. Let’s dance in the mess, hold the mistakes like treasures, and let the world see us, not as polished statues, but as living, breathing works of art. Because in the end, it’s not the flawless things we carry with us—it’s the imperfect ones that stay, lingering in our hearts like the last note of a song that wasn’t quite perfect, but felt like home.

-Vie (06.Feb.2025, A Half Eaten Croissant)