Perfection Unpersonified

Let's talk about perfection.

I'm not perfect. Oh, I have a lot of vices. I wish I didn't. The person that I wish to be is drastically different from the person that I am. Oftentimes I find myself dreaming about futures revolving around the perfect me, untainted, unspoiled, unsinned. Everything is predictable, everything is according to my wishes, everything is perfect.

Then I wake up and find myself clutching my blanket, with dreary sunshine through my window blinds and an anxious alarm squeaking from my cell phone. And things feel a lot colder.

Oh, I am a romantic fool, a title I accept without contest. I muse in Shakespearean verse, I think in hyperboles and melodrama, I speak in attempted prestige. When something goes wrong or proceeds contrary to my liking, I feel like the sky just fell on me. No matter how professional I can be, how respectful I can be, I still have the heart of a child that wants and wants and never gets what she needs.

I have a heart the size of a world that not even Atlas can bear. Can anyone match its size? Can anyone bear it for me? Can I ease the burden off my chest?

I am selfish. There are many desires unfulfilled, many frustrations unappeased, many inopportunities unsolved. I want so much and yet cannot receive them. I know it is wrong to be so selfish, but my heart disobeys my mind. It is like a greedy monster of a child that my motherly mind has to raise, all by herself.

There are so many things I want to say to the people I love, the people I hold most dear to my heart. I want to speak, not write, not sit here and muse and lament and bitch and scream. But my lips stay shut. My courage evaporates. And the words become unspoken, and I beat myself up for lacking the courage and the willpower.

Maybe I love too much to say much. This world just doesn't seem to have any more room or desire for romanticism.

Yes, I have a guilt complex. It keeps haunting me, refraining me, restricting me. It beats me up and leaves me in a ditch of hatred. It whips me and shuts me in a cell of woe.

The perfect person, I will never be. But what is perfect? Is it the perfection that many people seek? Are we searching for the wrong perfection? I believe, or want to believe, that the "inperfect world" we live in, is in fact perfect. The "inperfect man" is in fact perfect. We just need to redefine our definition of "perfect".

I want so much. I need so little. What better discrepancy than this? And what more can I say? What more can I say?

...

There's no end to this.