The flaws of nature are windows through which one can look toward to rest one’s tired eyes after a long day of seeing many. Here are windows that one can open when one needs to breathe because at times one’s skin can feel more like handcuffs than a temple. When the body that one had kept one’s soul in ever since feels like a foreign stranger, or when one’s face more like a creeper than a friend in a public bathroom, there are spaces embedded in nature that one can slip through, whether for safety or sanity.
Flaws sound like problems, which ought to be solved, but maybe the reason why nothing seems to ever be perfect is because breathing itself can be suffocating enough, what more a precisely measured way of exhaling and inhaling and moving about a boundless world? Hence, instead of a vacuum—a pristine void where everything is as it should and thought to be—we have nature: she who seems to know and do everything as it should be, accurate but never ever precise in that there are always those tiny deviations. Tiny deviations that are tiny enough to oftentimes escape the brittle patterns of pure reason, but that in the greater scheme of all things seem to say something that ought to be known to the very same fragile minds.
That something seems to be this: that here is a gap in the ever-pressuring space-time continuum where one can sit in for a while. Today that gap for me is in the realisation that I have not been looking at where I was: where my two feet and whole body stand had been out of my consciousness as my focus was on where I ought to step next. To make things more tricky, I had the illusion of looking right where I was only because I would only let myself thinking of a few inches next and not the usual miles away in all directions.
Still, I may not have been looking toward tomorrow, I was certainly not looking at whatever truly was at the moment.
Now I may approach this as mentioned: like a problem to be solved. Certainly, it is no good to not look at where one is, so we ought to be rid of this flaw—?
Yet without even asking, I seemed to know the answer the moment I saw the flaw as natural.
As natural as poison berries, or typhoons, or volcanic eruptions.
These ‘flaws’ of nature may be windows, sometimes even doors—either way, whatever size or significance they come in, the functions are similar. Here are spaces to sit in or escape through, whether through the eyes or the whole body. Knowing something is poisonous means I can opt not to eat it, but perhaps the colour is pretty enough for my eyes and I would like to try a bite—just a small piece so as not to die—I can but I do not have to. Even if I am inclined to do so, perhaps out of habit or genetic writing, I am free enough to recognise those bounds and unshackle the unconscious awake. So here I see poison berries, but as I am neither starving nor interested, I can carry on my merry way without having a taste of them even if I had been doing so every time I pass by its tree every morning.
Henceforth, I do not need to know what is next nor do I have to stop breathing until I get all the answers because the flaw is that I do not need any sort of answer whatsoever only that it is strongly in my nature to venture regardless.