Delicious Dissatisfaction




I relish minor discomforts. Don’t you? The aching

Weight to your legs after a far-away walk,

The flavoured flatness of herbal tea,

The pip stuck longingly between molars.


I enjoy

The furtive uncertainty of turning out the lights

On an unwholesome staircase. The vague

But persistent traffic, distantly marring

A quiet night. Eyes watering

From basking in a huge, filthy, jubilant bonfire.


Nothing is perfect, after all. So surely,

All asymmetry reflects godliness.


Also, not quite being able to “Lady Macbeth” the

Tobacco-smell from my finger’s delicate

Underbelly, its reassuring scent.

There is another craving to be had

In incompleteness.

The unremembered name of a

Crossword clue, its taste on the tip of your… what is it?

Blank squares calling out

An unspoiled, because unfinished, memory;


Or the secret delight of knowing that

Because of your own idleness (it felt so good),

Today’s task is partially left over

For a smilingly imperfect, shruggable, tomorrow.



It’s nice when things go to plan, or are symmetrical and ordered, balanced, what have you. But also, nothing in life is ever truly ordered, no single day in life is the “that day” when all one’s troubles are finally over, for good. We learn not to avoid storms, but to dance when it rains. So enjoy imperfections. Remember: you are one. 


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