Does perfection exist?
It seems impossible to chase after perfection; which, by definition, is without flaws.
Perfection is a lover who drags me through the dirt, and proceeds to command me to clean myself up.
After which, it demands to know why I'm making a mess inside the house by bringing dust and mud indoors.
It is that impossibly cruel act of euthanizing self-worth, that I come closer to perfection. By meeting every senseless demand it calls out to me, perfection becomes closer to touch.
It's so close to touch...
I can almost feel it...
But I know better. I will never get to touch perfection. Even though I know this, I still beat myself needlessly just to get closer to it. Perfection is an impossible dilemma, one I love to loathe.