If everything is perfect as it is, why would I want to write about it all the time?

What’s there to say about perfection?

Well, good question.

And:

This gig, this life-thing, this unfathomable happening we often appreciate so little, is SO incredibly and ridiculously perfect, that there’s also room for imperfection.

It’s a bit like unconditional love.

It doesn’t need to prove or defend itself.

It’s just there, staring at you with a huge, silent smile.

‘Fuck you, you’re not perfect, you stupid imperfect perfection!’

Silent smile.

‘And what about his, and that, and this furious guy with the tiny German moustache, and what about that thing over there and what about these people, do you call THAT perfect!’

More silent smiling.

This perfection is SO perfect, that it doesn’t mind if we object to the idea of perfection.

It doesn’t mind anything.

It loves, but not as we think about it.

It also doesn’t need approval, writing about it, or acknowledgment.

Perfection is not an opinion.

It’s just a different word for life.

—

(Photo by @aliarifsoydas, for Unsplash)