On Perfection

You are perfect.

Read that line again. Read it as if I was typing it right now. Each letter appearing individually, and rapidly in succession. But not too rapidly. I’m not a fast typist. The first word ends, there is a space, and then there is a pause. The second word does not begin, and for a hesitation of a second, you are forced to inwardly reflect. There isn’t time for further introspection before the next letters start again. Just enough to make you uncompromisingly aware of yourself.

Three more letters type out, more poignantly this time, but also more hesitantly – like every one was searched for on the keyboard. Not because they were, of course, but because this word is actually the most important of the sentence and deserves appropriate reverence. Whatever follows is made holy by it. Whatever follows is judgement because of it. This is the deadly sin of the sentence.

Now you know what is to follow. The barriers are built up already. This post isn’t about you – it couldn’t be, this post is a post, a blog by your friend, or your friend of a friend. It’s a writer’s device. A plea for attention or a feeble attempt at unique writing. A trick used so that I – the writer – can draw you in. Nothing more.

But it is. It is about you. As the final seven letters are quickly typed out, you have perhaps already made yourself impervious to the words. It doesn’t matter, perhaps beyond the inspiration for a scoff, that the word outlined is a synonym for God. It doesn’t matter. This is merely an entertainment. A fantasy. One man’s fancy put to print. And, anyways, I don’t really know anything about the real you.

If you have to reject something about that first sentence – anything to make it more bearable, comprehendible, acceptable – reject what I reject. Don’t reject its intent, or its attempt at genuine connection. Do not guard yourself from the brilliant and beautiful possibility that you could be here, and that I could be earnestly and honestly desiring to put you here. But, if I am right in my prophesy, and you do reject something, make it real. Reject what I reject.

Do not reject the intimacy between the reader and the word “You”. In reading, you could be anyone. Who am I to know who shall read it and who shall not? And we are infinitely different – no one is the composed the same way. But we are also all the same. Unique and beautiful snowflakes are unique and beautiful, but they are also all simply water, frozen into ice. Your heart and mind may make up something that I have never, ever seen before, but they are still composed of a substance that makes up my form too. Even if you’ve never whispered private secrets to me at 3 in the morning. Even if we’ve never met.

Don’t reject the idea that you can be defined, even if your definition is infinite. Definition is appreciation, appreciation is divine. It is by appreciation that we judge, that we have fears, hopes, dreams. It is the appreciation of rational thought that grants us contentment, and it is the irrational appreciation of the world that brings us bliss. It is through definition that we recognize the undefinable. “You are” is why you can be. Why you are unique to me. It is the means through which you are infinite yet substantial. It is no threat to you – it is vindication of your divinity. Without it, you are simply unremarkable.

Reject what you really reject. Reject what I reject. You are not perfect.

It’s not what you were afraid of at first. You may not even be afraid of it at all. But I am, and it’s something that we can all nod our head to. Maybe you think your thighs are too big. Maybe it’s because you’ve got zits, or no car. Maybe you absolutely suck at love, or at your career. Maybe you’re not afraid of not being perfect but instead you’re afraid and that’s why you’re not perfect. Maybe it’s because your religion told you you weren’t. Maybe it’s because your mom told you you weren’t.

For me, it’s just about all of the above. Except my mom was fine and I think my thighs are too small. But I also have a crooked back, and I’ll never have the strength to lift a lover off the ground and pin her to a wall. Doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with perfection, does it? But it matters to me. The list can go on, and to be honest, if I’m not looking you in the eye when I say it, it doesn’t really sate me much in the telling. So I won’t go on. Because that’s not important.

But how you’re imperfect is important. It is to me. See, this whole piece was inspired by a rather garish sexual line in my head: “your imperfections get me off.” Though the sentiment was raw and lustfully inspired, their is truth when it is applied to a broader matter. The most attractive traits I’ve ever found, in friends and in lovers, has been exactly what they look in the mirror and fear. One of the sexiest qualities of a woman I was physically attracted to was her the crinkle in her tongue. And now, on the rare occasion that I think of her beauty, that is what I remember. Nothing else of her proportionate form matters much to me.

Partly that is because that was far more “her” than any other shape or mould that fit a norm. That, by definition, was what stuck out. I remember lisps and crushed apples in irrational rage and pregnancies. I remember moles and weird double joints and rather distasteful morality. And it would be a mistake to think that I hold all of this as aesthetically beautiful. Farts stink. No getting around that. And I’m not pretending that on some intellectual, bohemian level, they don’t.

But I remember farters as farters, and I remember that life is just life. And even the ugly things are laughable. The most ugly are the most laughable. We are the imperfect, divine makers of our own, imperfect dominion. Meeting that – eye to eye – with appreciation and glory, and then with merriment and celebration, is the way to happiness. To avoid those imperfections is to pretend that we are less than we are.

Your every single choice, your every single happenstance, and your every single imperfection has made you into who, what and where you are. This moment – this very moment – of you reading these letters that I’ve typed would not have been were it not for every facet of you leading up to it. It couldn’t have been, by definition. That’s reality, and it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s not even good. But don’t reject it. It is definite. It is definable.

It is perfectly you.

- Z