Contemplation

Perfection dictates standards. To some, these words hum positively to their ears. They threaten life with limitations to others.

Only just now I have understood why I have not been able to succeed in certain things in life. At least, I have found insight into what I had perceived as a mental obstacle. I can’t remember exactly when, but one day, many years ago, someone somewhere planted in my wandering mind the hideous idea that “practice makes perfect”.

To someone whose life have been rocked high and low with dreams and ambitions and faint promises, the furthest thought I’d want to contemplate is accepting that optimal existence requires perfection; that things ought to be in a certain flawless way, without impurities, and simply, but most sophisticatedly, highly purposeful.

Fortunately, only to my recent realization, aided by a blues-note, I found that loosening up a bit is not such a bad idea. Perhaps I’ll continue living by numbers, only now I won’t be rounding them up and instead keep the fractions intact.

Practice ought to be fun, inspiring, and improving. It certainly ought not to make perfect.

Image and display are not entirely inherent properties of the form, or so lately it seem to me. Perfection, in a model, used to refer to flawless, logical, and harmonious attributes that limit limitations to none.

It was hard to see beauty construed within such a rigid mind frame. Beauty, and all other good things like peace and happiness and contentment and love, for that matter. I had seen them all before, but it was rare. However, whereby I took the lack and the imperfection and the unclarity as reasons to shy away without regard from what was brought upon me in life, now I take as a source of definition and identity and uniqueness.

I used to pay undivided attention to beauty.
Now I take my time.
I blink a little longer.

And I see something new.
Something good.
Something beautiful.