Bookmark #378

I wish I knew who cursed me with this striving for perfection. I wish I could ask them why. This picture of flawlessness runs deep within my veins, right along with my blood. This obsession, this want in me for a world worth living in, a life lived correctly, of well-rounded days and ideal interaction, has killed me on more occasions than I can keep count of. If I have ever bled out, I have made sure I did it right. At least, I have tried. So far, my life has been a pointless attempt to keep everything in the right place, to do what I say I will, to improve and improve and improve, and never reach the ideal I have set for myself. I have consistently failed to climb the pedestal I can see ever so clearly in my mind. I have seen it ever since I was a little boy. I jump towards it, but I always fall short.

I had an unachievable standard for myself. I was my worst critic. I was my worst admirer. There was always more work to be done. I did not know when to congratulate myself. The world with all its odd intricacies and make-believe was a reflection of the standard we held for ourselves, of what we were willing to let go or let be. As much as I know perfect does not exist, we could not know, and we could not rest until we got close. The only paradise we deserved was built with calloused hands and tired minds. All that was to be fixed could be fixed; everything and everyone could be made into a better form. All we needed was the will and a little bit of time.

There was little we could do for the world; there was always something we could do for ourselves. It all trickled down into the world, but it started with us. There were no gods; we built the world in our image. I pronounced myself guilty for all trials in my mind. It is the only crime I have ever punished myself for: imperfection. I have only asked myself a single question for all of time: was there a better way? The answer has always been yes.