Some Days

I’ve taken the time to work on me; I found the tools and rebuilt what was salvageable, fortified what was still standing: all while clearing away the rubble of the past.

Here and there, you’ll find a crack in the foundation, an oversight on my part: something I said I’d come back to later. Sometimes a leak will spring: usually something as minor as a dripping faucet, rarely a ruptured pipe.

Some days, I don’t notice the small imperfections awaiting my attention. I revel in the sturdiness of the frame around me: captivated by the exquisite architecture. I sit, contentedly, admiring the décor: the colors, the art. Some days, the flaws add character and charm; some days I love the quirks.

Yet, some days, I cannot stand seeing the places where the paint has chipped away, the scuffs and scratches on the floor from all the pacing and worry. Some days, the basement floods, the power goes out, and there’s a storm raging outside. On these days, it’s tempting to just take a sledgehammer to the walls and start over, rebuilding from the ground up.

But I’d lose all the integrity and stability that I worked so hard to attain. All the memories and nostalgia would end up fading like the early morning fog.

The content days out number the overwhelming ones; it isn’t worth it to sacrifice all the work and effort just to pursue the idea of perfection. Many things appear perfect from the outside. I may even appear perfect to someone looking from afar.

Just because you can’t see the cracks or don’t notice them doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. Someday, soon perhaps, I will find the time to finish repairing what I started. Before everything crumbles again.

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