Perfection
What is perfection?
Like infinity, an unreachable limit to which we strive for- yet never truly achieve... what's more, we don't even understand it. We can't.
Crafting intricate patterns of glass with the precision our eyes can afford, we will always see ourselves reflected in that creation, and -if perfection truly be what we seek- will dash our own heart and soul against the ground and shatter that imperfect perception according to our own will.
What's worse, all those in awe and wonder of it can see the destruction for themselves. Stand there, horrified, "What have you done?" and any who have coerced you or caressed you into fashioning such a beautiful spectacle will bleed as the shards of their own encouragement ricochet and slice into their own flesh.
Humanity is such a wonderful disease of imperfection jammed in the cogs of the universe.
And yet we all want to ask the question, "Why do we exist? What is our purpose?" Such is the foolhardiness of man, asking questions we don't want to hear the answer to. In the very tissue of our hearts we hope that this purpose not only exists, but is for our good- for our highest good.
So what if we don't like the answer?
Are we going to scream? Cry? Perhaps we should, but it's much more likely we will stare dumbly at it for a lifetime... and slowly as we expire we will let out one sigh of a breath- "I give up"
I hate this.
And what if I have dashed the dreams and hearts of others to the ground? I think then... then I should really have a reason to cry. And if I am really so understanding of what I have done, I will surely cry. Cry and cry and wail until I've made such a scene that people pat me and tell me "it's ok".
But I really can't believe myself. I'm really sick. I should just burn and burn until there's nothing but dust...
...and my curse is that I will have to do it all over again.
No matter how many times.
Once it's broken once, it can't come back. And as people wonder, "Why? Why did you do that?" You try to explain, try to justify, and the wound will always become fresh again.
But what can we really do? Lie? Tell them some wonderful, beautiful reason why you destroyed everything? Tell them some poetic fairy tale? Or is it such a horrible thing to look them honestly in the eyes and tell them, "I really only did it because I hate myself".
I can try to be perfect... but I won't try to be fake.
That's really the honest truth. It's not that I was incapable of beauty. Or that I had any malice or intention against you. It really wasn't you at all. This whole time it has just been me- trying so hard to make something so perfectly beautiful- and in the end all I can do is hate myself.
Like infinity, an unreachable limit to which we strive for- yet never truly achieve... what's more, we don't even understand it. We can't.
Crafting intricate patterns of glass with the precision our eyes can afford, we will always see ourselves reflected in that creation, and -if perfection truly be what we seek- will dash our own heart and soul against the ground and shatter that imperfect perception according to our own will.
What's worse, all those in awe and wonder of it can see the destruction for themselves. Stand there, horrified, "What have you done?" and any who have coerced you or caressed you into fashioning such a beautiful spectacle will bleed as the shards of their own encouragement ricochet and slice into their own flesh.
Humanity is such a wonderful disease of imperfection jammed in the cogs of the universe.
And yet we all want to ask the question, "Why do we exist? What is our purpose?" Such is the foolhardiness of man, asking questions we don't want to hear the answer to. In the very tissue of our hearts we hope that this purpose not only exists, but is for our good- for our highest good.
So what if we don't like the answer?
Are we going to scream? Cry? Perhaps we should, but it's much more likely we will stare dumbly at it for a lifetime... and slowly as we expire we will let out one sigh of a breath- "I give up"
I hate this.
And what if I have dashed the dreams and hearts of others to the ground? I think then... then I should really have a reason to cry. And if I am really so understanding of what I have done, I will surely cry. Cry and cry and wail until I've made such a scene that people pat me and tell me "it's ok".
But I really can't believe myself. I'm really sick. I should just burn and burn until there's nothing but dust...
...and my curse is that I will have to do it all over again.
No matter how many times.
Once it's broken once, it can't come back. And as people wonder, "Why? Why did you do that?" You try to explain, try to justify, and the wound will always become fresh again.
But what can we really do? Lie? Tell them some wonderful, beautiful reason why you destroyed everything? Tell them some poetic fairy tale? Or is it such a horrible thing to look them honestly in the eyes and tell them, "I really only did it because I hate myself".
I can try to be perfect... but I won't try to be fake.
That's really the honest truth. It's not that I was incapable of beauty. Or that I had any malice or intention against you. It really wasn't you at all. This whole time it has just been me- trying so hard to make something so perfectly beautiful- and in the end all I can do is hate myself.
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