Also, as it strikes me now and as queer as it might sound it’s still true nonetheless, that we, all of us, as we progress along in our lives and turn into the grownups, end up eventually killing in ourselves the ability to love other people and ourselves for the imperfections – an ability we possessed when our brains were immature, consciences clear, and intuitions astounding. Such an imperfect statement – to begin any article with – both in terms of structure and comprehension, isn’t it? Deliberate as it was, so was its necessity to put forth the explanation of what I just meant by it. We don’t need perfection let alone the craving to befriend people and possess things that are more so.
Wouldn’t the world of perfect things be a mundane place to live in? Everything in its perfect form, leaving no scope for betterment, no scope for yearning for more. Perfection is immeasurable, and anything so has always been a source of least fascination to men.
Come to think of it and you’ll notice what makes imperfection so mystifying are a relentless scope of improvement, and a measure of comparison against other imperfect things.
There’s a beauty in imperfection. A necessity. There’s a reason I prefer music with some imperfection while driving; for a perfect music would want me to close my eyes and lose myself in the utopia and that wouldn’t go well with driving. Get the gist? And, so was the deliberation behind the opening statement – leaving you unsatisfied.
Recall the last time you called a piece of music or any article perfect. And then if that indeed was perfect then you couldn’t have possibly found anything better than it. But so isn’t the case. You still go for more songs and even more written pieces. You love a few even more than anything you have ever loved before. You end up calling another song perfect, and another article immaculate. And then yet another. But that shouldn’t have been the case, you ask yourself. You knew in your mind that the song was perfect. Never had you heard anything finer than that. But your heart failed to accept the very notion of perfection. So, does that make perfection subject to time, or is it the time that renders this ‘perfection’ imperfect? And if so be the case then would it be wrong to say that nothing perfect will ever exist, or to be precise that perfection exists but as ephemeral imperfections until something better shows up. And, the only place where it actually does is in our delusions, in our overjoyed moments, and the stories with which we convince ourselves.
The only thing that perhaps went wrong with my puerile assumptions about the time when I’ll be grown up is that I’ll be perfect. Such an imperfect kid I as was I still am proud that this assumption taught me that the very notion of perfection is in itself imperfect.
One doesn’t have to be perfect, one seldom does; one just has to accept the imperfections both within and without.
Pursue the perfection; accept the imperfection.
Perfection is our desire, and imperfection our necessity.
Perfection might be the destination, but imperfection the path. And sometimes it’s not so much about the destination as it is about enjoying the path.
Perfection might be blissful, but it’s the ghosts of imperfection that keeps us haunting and aid us in surviving.