I am quite certain I almost ruined my life in the pursuit of perfection. I'm not even sure whose definition I was following; most likely it was the most dangerous--one made up entirely in my poor, addled and misguided brain. But even recognition is rarely enough. We become so wedded to the idea of perfection, so thin-skinned yet strong-willed, afraid, eventually, even to leave the house for fear of marring the image, giving in to temptation, falling apart.
But at the same time, what's all that work for if not to be seen? It's the blessing and the curse--to be seen is too much and not enough. How much easier some days would be if we were carved from marble, unchanging, unfeeling, unambitious, but, what? Un-moving? Unmoved?
There are people out there comfortable with themselves or, if not comfortable, comfortable with their discomfort, comfortable with our universal imperfections. They are the truly charismatic, the authentically present souls we're inevitably drawn to. They are the truly beautiful, the truly kind, because their kindness begins with themselves, and that stems from a wisdom beyond worth, beyond the petty idea of perfection, imperfection, and otherwise.