After Reading "The Fault in Our Stars"

"Time is a slut that seems to screw everyone." -John Green, The Fault in Our Stars
We can't grasp time. Yet we can choose to grasp the memories, components, little fragments that forever embed in the fiber of our being. There are many people like Augustus Waters. Many people who have a shortened amount of time. Some leave this earth in a hospital bed, surrounded by family members and friends, while others die alone, in the wide stretch of earth they chose to inhabit, shedding their life for complete strangers. Yet not one life trumps another in the form of being more important or heroic than another. Every one is a hero. Like Augustus was a hero to Hazel, people save lives every day simply by losing their own. But in actuality, you don't ever lose your life. You simply gift it to those around you. The people you laugh with, talk with, love with. When you leave this short second of earth to the great beyond, your life is lived out through the people around you.
People often confuse the death as a time of loneliness, sadness. But why do we cry when someone leaves? Only because we are left with the absence of the physical them, while we are only allowed to remember them in memories etched into the spiderwebs in our minds. Because we had something there and now we don't. We remember them for who they were. For who they made themselves, in spite of the situation that they were gifted. Waking up at 5 in the morning to alter our appearances for people who will never notice us is pointless. By doing this, we leave no impression but the sole fact that we want to "follow the leader." Why can't we be the leaders? Why can't we find the courage in ourselves to swallow the lump forming in the back of our throats and move against the current?
This generation is a generation ruled by society and the idea that perfection can be grasped in the cup of your hands. Perfection in itself is a hypocrite. Without flaws everyone would be robots, moving in synchronization and feeling nothing. We could not hear the irony in songs, or feel the warmth in linking someone's life with yours or feeling the crushing weight of the last few words of a novel that changed your existence. No one would be remembered for the difference that they made, because nobody made any.
And tell me, what's so perfect about living if you're not really living?