Amsterdam is infamous for the legalisation of same-sex marriage, marijuana and prostitution. It was a realm of sinners trapped in the worldly debate of faith and morale, heightened by social media activists whose bravery are masked behind online wars. One could easily draw to conclusion that Amsterdam is indeed just that, conspired and ajar.

But to my deranged book-lover self, Amsterdam was the setting of a novel I took refuge from when I was a teenager. Not the tainted little city it was painted to be. As I sit on the iconic bench of “The Fault in Our Stars” where Augustus Waters confessed his love for Hazel Grace, all I saw of Amsterdam was tranquility. The picturesque buildings and historic landmarks, coupled with the beautiful faces exclusive to the Dutch. I found Amsterdam beautiful. I found the Dutch beautiful. In fact, amongst the 29 countries that I’ve been to, it is with Dutch I found perfection. Their skin was as white as snow, and their features were as symmetrical as the painting of Picasso. That to me, they are the epitome of perfection. But to them, they are locally ordinary.

It was ironic. Far from the norms that the world conspired upon. Like stepping into a trance of peace and oblivion. For if you think about it, the battle to achieve perfection is null. For perfection is subjective. So as being crowned the prettiest, nor the smartest nor the most influential. You see, when we turn back to ashes the world will still revolve. No matter how we chose to live and contribute to the world. We all will then face oblivion. Alongside with the eulogies written for us and the memoirs it comes with. Should we fear it? No. We embrace it.

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