SP/n: Though it's not in order, the alphabet is still the alphabet, right?

I

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Imperfection

What is it? Was it subjective? Was it when an artist wouldn't receive your work because it wasn't je ne sais quoi enough? Was it when a designer wouldn't cast you because you weren't tall enough? Pretty enough? Perfect enough? Or was imperfection objective? If so, who's to judge?

To me, imperfection was embodied in this being named Haruno Sakura. She was everything that had gone wrong. Like an abandoned experiment. She was for a lack of a better term; flawed. She was a five foot daughter to six foot parents. She had this obnoxious pink hair, which held no explanation in the books of science. Too large, too green eyes that were hardly concealed behind square-framed glasses. Freckled skin that was too sensitive to everything. Hands and feet that were small enough to fit in the children's section. And a forehead that rivaled the square area of Texas.

Physically, she was imperfection in a nutshell.

But when I looked to her, standing in front of the TV in a shirt large enough to conceal her shorts, glasses perched on her tiny button nose, hair tousled carelessly over one shoulder, head cocked to one side as she diligently observed the cooking show. She ran her hand through her hair, mussing it up some more. Sensing that I was gazing, she turned her head to me and we stared at each other for a while, and just because she was Haruno Sakura, a smile flashed on her face. Then I thought…

Imperfection

What is it?

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SP/n: Tell me what you think!

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