There is a narrow divergence between purity and sin; a distance so minuscule we may unintentionally traverse the superfluous boundary, leaving no evidence at the crime scene. We cringe when we witness others betray their own personal values, but we remain blind to our inevitable degradation.

There is a fine, almost-invisible line between pride and arrogance. It goes that pride comes before a fall, but it's almost easy to miss that pomposity breaks the landing. There is almost no clear distinction between being proud of one's own achievements and that in relation to others' lack thereof. After all, self-fulfillment is almost always a fantasy, an unfathomable dream. Achievements are measured by how difficult they are to attain; in other words, they are viewed based on how few people are able to subvert the obstacles and attain such a feat; and in even cruder terms, how many people fail to be on par with aforementioned individuals (no doubt welling with pride, or should I say arrogance?). We are nothing without others having achieved nothing. Pride comes before the fall, and that fall is the very corollary of our blind arrogance.

There is an intricate way we can twist being perfect into being perfectly normal and yet the stark contrast stares deep into our conscience. The negligible difference seems almost ironic. We talk about perfection as though it were the prime hallmark of every human lives, the pinnacle of success everybody strives for but nobody thrives with. Is it not a contradiction in terms when someone is no more than perfectly normal? It is in itself a state of perfection, yet all the same entirely imperfect in all that is desirable and sought after. Funny how perfection can both refer to being 'completely' something and in another context, possessing all the required or desirable elements, qualities or characteristics. It is therefore almost difficult to comprehend that when we describe someone as being perfectly perfect, the first 'perfect' is less perfect than its successor.

There is yet a thinner thread separating that of 'wanting to' and of 'wanting not'. It feels like I want to hold on to every last breath, every last minute spent in the broken memories, every last goodbye (which is again ironic because each goodbye is a last, but there can only be one true last farewell). But it mirrors the intention of wanting to not be carried with the wind, not wanting to spin as the world twirls, to live each day as it is before the night overshadows the light. A mix of wanting and wanting not miring a helpless soul, bleeding with hypocrisy and shivering from shame. It is so indistinguishable that walking on this thread is almost an insurmountable task. Yet balancing on the edge of desire is not so much as frightening as having to make a choice and come face to face with reality.

There is a thin line, but it is there, and it is as outstanding as it is negligible.