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I felt almost honoured for a moment.
Someone seemed to be drawing me. The artist, sitting across from me. I don't think he was very talented, and he couldn't have been making much money from it, judging my his tattered clothes and ragged appearance, but still, the artist had chosen me to sketch on this particular occasion.
I looked at him. Now he seemed to be examining the girl sitting beside me. Her hair, in particular. I didn't feel anything except maybe pity for the artist. For in the fury of movement adding shading and texture and life to the drawing, he will never realise that by making this concoction, this girl that could never be created by the geniuses of genetics, he is creating a standard for himself that is simply impossible to achieve. By picking and chosing the features of his subjects, he will only achieve an unreal and unbelievable perfection. Maybe that's why the artist looks so hopeless and poor. He is search of the ultimate perfection of which everybody seems to be able to achieve, only in tidbits but never entirely. I'm sure there is something that is perfect about any person to walk the earth, however minute it may be. And any of these hidden perfections could be exposed and advertised, but that's not what life's about. Make the most of what is perfect, deal with what is not.
Maybe if we try, the blemishes in our reality won't show enough to take away the beauty of the whole picture.
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