Perfectly Imperfect
Crammed with work, exams and essays up to the eyeballs, explosion imminent. Must Write.
Perfection is the goal of everyman and everywoman, and its projected downwards onto the faces of all our children. A scoreboard that never appears, a cheap moral stance, a newly defined circumstance, justifiable self-homicide. A sucker in a ditch. The man of reason is lost, the man of intuition leads him, blindly, into a darkened alley where only the cockroaches await. I see life, I see death, I see a copasetic baby’s breath. To be perfect is to know defeat. There is no spoon for what you eat.
Defection is perfection. Perfection is the ideal, but once achieved becomes just a meal. Perfection is in the trivial mind. It is the absence of moral blinds, of circumstantial evidence, of retorts and ambiguities. I have little to say, insofar that I am perfectly not at ease with conversing in this manner. My defective mind is scattered across the universe. The coalition of redemption, without any consternation, possesses no real vision.
Be perfectly imperfect. That way you can be accepted for who you are, and cherished for what you are not.
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