THE PERFECTION OF IMAGINATION - by jrc (thought reflection)

Based on the imperfections that represent life in general, I must admit that it is quite challenging to come to terms with this notion. Constantly, we are led to believe that our behavior, academic success, work promotion, and having a well-off standard of life should be regarded as perfect. However, in my humble opinion, these notions are far from perfect or even real, mainly because they are a representation of the reality that takes shape in our minds.

For instance, if someone can imagine living a perfect life—being healthy, having a nice cozy home surrounded by an idyllic environment—they may do their best to transfer that mental reality into the palpable and tangible day-to-day life we live. However, this "new" reality will likely be represented not in detail but as a similar copy to the one they had already imagined. In this tangible reality, that person will likely face certain limitations and obstacles to overcome, in addition to the possibility of getting sick or, perhaps, living in a small apartment in a congested city instead of a beautiful wooden house.

It seems to me that the reality portrayed in our imagination, as a process of thinking and construction, is often perceived as plain truth, thus possessing a more dynamic sense and definition of real perfection than what we can actually achieve or obtain based on those imaginations.

Considering what appears to be real and perfect, I would regard the construction in our imagination as such. There is no room for error, no possibility of imperfection because it is we who construct that reality inside our minds. Therefore, the life we live in our current world could be seen as a faithful representation of imperfection.

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LA CHICA DEL CALLEJÓN - Descripcion de personaje de ficcion - de jrqc

Ese día el sol brillaba como siempre, bañandola en su resplendor, tornando el color de su piel en tonos de miel y nuez. Su juventud perfumaba la calle y los ojos de los espectadores no la perdían de vista. Ella era simplemente la frescura de la primavera y el calor del verano combinadas casi perfectamente en las carnes y la figura de su cuerpo. Sus senos firmes dejaban entrever las aureolas de la juventud, mientras sus piernas daban paso a ese menear característico de su coqueteo, al que daba rienda suelta así como su castaña y ondulada cabellera. Su mente anidaba la sed de ver el mundo, de ir más allá de embriagarse del placer que éste le pudiera ofrecer y sin escatimar en ambiciones y sueños ella simplemente se dejaba ir. Era la carencia de estas vivencias y posesiones que la presionaban a sumirse y ser esclava de ambiciones que a veces eran malsanas y mezquinas, pero a ella eso no le importaba. Deseaba agarrar al mundo y hacerle su esclavo, deseaba ser complacida y en su parecer er

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You once said that we are entangled to death since the moment we are born, that we are chained to this earthly prison and that there is nothing we can possibly do about it, that all joy sinks countless times and that lovers will always mourn their dead love swallowed by neverending grief. It seems somehow that sadness in all its complexity lingers within, it extends it branches all over without distinction, with no regrets for who the victim is. Some branches seem to be so rooted that it makes the heart break, it makes it bleed tears to the point that you can barely function. Yes, I do still remember that evening when you said that and I noticed your face sinking, your spirit broken. However, you wouldn't divulge the reason of your torment. Your beautiful darkened eyes were bloodshot and you observed me, intently, your eyebrows would frown at times and your stare would grow deeper as if trying to snatch my soul. You stood close to me, I could feel your cold breath, I could feel you

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