The moon.

The moon looks gorgeous today. Its appearance reminds me of the vibrant Shikara I rowed in Kashmir, the colours might differ but akin remains the glow. Neither does it shimmer for ostentatious motives nor for ulterior faiths. The moon is a constant and glamorous testimony of the revamping nature of imperfections, those that this World considers to be sadistic, little do they know that in these imperfections lies the quintessential aspect of being alive and witnessing one's own growth. The spots on the moon make it what it is and elucidate on the inevitability of flaws. To be perfect is to be nothing because being perfect is not universal, the contextual aptness of perfection is a catastrophe of it's own. Though the parameters of perfection are different for every soul alive, the moon still beams with pride and glory, it comes around every night without being affected by whether it's flawed magnificence is appreciated by us or not. It rises with an eternal confidence and goes down with that self-absorbed enthusiasm, I'll come back tomorrow bitches.