I love unmade beds. I read this in a passage today, and it encapsulated every single thing that gives life to humans. It was beautiful, and everything written came from the writer's heart, capturing what numerous others felt too. And a part of me thought I related to that the moment I read it, how humans find beauty in each other's truest forms when they're vulnerable, drunk, desiring something from their core, daydreaming, crying, in love, feeling every powerful emotion a human could feel. I was amazed by how perfectly it was written, even if it was written about all the moments farthest from perfect.

But another, rather masked part of me hated that I felt otherwise. How could someone ever love the part of me I have hated since I was aware of it? How could someone ever love smeared makeup, fragile hearts and incomplete dreams as they're nothing but a projection of what could've been? Seems rather unrealistic, being awestruck by something so fucked. There is an invisible line one needs to cross, a line between finding in others vulnerabilities amusing and caring about their insecurities like our own. Isn't being vulnerable also a con of being too genuine?

But maybe I did not understand the passage at all. Maybe my mind wasn't able to comprehend the depth of those words, and my heart was not ready to accept it, as I always thought smeared makeup meant you look ugly, fragile hearts portrayed a sign of weakness, and broken dreams belonged in trash. Or maybe I just prefer my bed made. hello I am preesha a third year fy student