Sometimes I feel like a kid standing outside of a candy shop...
... I gaze inside at all the beautiful jars filled to the top with delectable treats. I see a child ask the clerk for a particular candy. The kind clerk opens a beautiful paper bag and drops a heaping scoop of candy into the bag and, smiling, hands the child their prize.
The little child runs gleefully to an empty seats and plops themself down on an red cushioned chair.
With their chubby, perfect, cherub fingers, they slowly, carefully, open the bag. They pull out two pieces of the round, red cinnamon candy and toss them into their mouth.
A grin begins to grow and stretches from ear to ear as the flavor seeps into every crevice of their perfectly shaped mouth.
Another child deposits themself next to the first child.
The two glance quickly at each other, or rather at each other's bags. Now, there is a brief moment in which the children have a decision to make, before they must move on.
But, as this is a beautiful candy shop, with warm colored lamp lights, and an old fireplace burning cheerfully in the corner, with shop keepers who are jovial and children running about giggling and laughing, it is obvious the decision they make.
The two exchange samples of their precious treats and the joy fills their faces as they taste a new, exciting, delicious flavor.
Another child joins the fun, and the sharing of treats continues, and like wildfire, spreads throughout the entire shop.
The shop, like the candy jars, is filled to the brim with faultless, charmingly exquisite children ...
... I am standing outside,
in the cold,
watching.
And there doesn't seem to be a door to enter the shop.
~
My neighborhood and the people that surround me are the candy shop,
with perfection drowning every ounce of their existence.
I can see all the fun they are having, all the beauty they are enjoying, all the deliciousness they are partaking of, but I cannot seem to find the door to this world.
Yet, if I did find the door, upon opening it, would I discover a dusty old shed, covered in cob webs? And imperfection?
Is the reflection on the glass distorting the image I see?
When I walk around in my neighborhood, I peer into my neighbors windows as I pass by their homes. I cannot help to perceive the glowing warmth that radiates from their dinner table conversation.
What did they do right in their lives to make such a perfect life for themselves? And what did I do so wrong to thwart a similar perfection?
And even as I say it, I believe that their lives are as miserable as my own, perhaps more, because they feel the need to put on show, to pretend, to be something other than what they are.
I am not perfect.
I do not believe I ever will be.
I have flaws.
Many of them.
But right now,
I don't feel the need to convince you that I'm perfect.
And that makes me happy.
I am perfectly content to gaze at the beautiful image of children dancing about a room filled with candy and joy,
because out here in the cold,
I am making a snowman.
So
nah, nah, naaah, nah, nah, naaah.
