Keep the Faith

Your Sun-Bleached Photo

Your sun-bleached photo.

That’s what he was to you - what he is to you. He’s sat out in the sun too long, yellow spots suddenly appearing, blotching his smile and his eyes, just a tiny bit. He’s been there all along.

You always thought he was perfect – no one could ever match up to something so amazing. Someone so inspirational and so touching. They were all like that. They seemed to say the right things, at the perfect times. They knew how to hold you at night, sing your lullabies to you, without even actually being there.

They had their arms wrapped around you – even when you never felt them. He would sing to you and remind you to stay strong and hang in when things got so tough that you forgot to keep holding onto the edge. You forgot that you might actually have a chance of climbing back up.

And when everything began to crumble around you, collapsing, suffocating you, threatening to make you implode with tears, fears, and anger, they sang to you again; they spoke to you through unimaginably perfect lyrics; they told of their love.

But you found the photo, and it’s imperfections, and you thought of throwing it away. You held it over the trash, the photo dangling between your two nimble fingers, threatening to hit against it precariously, such a soft, light thud, so quiet you don’t even look back when it reaches the bottom of the trash.

And all of the sudden, the lyrics flew through your head again. It was like the air stopped moving; you stopped breathing; you remembered almost everything he stood for – everything you stood for.

People are allowed to have imperfections, people are allowed to make mistakes, mess up. They’re allowed to be different and go through life without agreeing with everyone’s opinions. They’re allowed to spin out of control for a second, to get caught up in the wind of the moment. Nobody is truly perfect.

Every person has at least one sun-bleached photo.


You held the photo tightly in your hands, tears spilling out from your crystal blue irises; as you fell to the floor; realisation hitting you.

Your beautiful sun-bleached photo, spotted and messed up; image blurred and almost confusing, but still there. He’s still beautiful, through all of it.

He’s still your hero.

He’s still teaching you, and singing you your lullabies.


Your sun-bleached photo.

Imperfectly perfect.
♠ ♠ ♠
This could be any hero you imagine it to be, I think.
It's just a metaphor I came up with, and fell in love with.
We're all imperfectly perfect, I believe.
KTF, in yourselves and them.