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The Worst Parts of Perfection
If I could put my feelings of dread into words,
I could say something like, “my insides are being torn apart”, “who I think of as the self is being drowned out by loud noises I feel to be physical entities”, or “I feel that my existence has become a constant ache and burden I cannot relieve, permanently”, “Respite from the suffering of every day is scarcely relieved by the darkness of night”, “Existence has become a worthless puzzle to solve”. How will the pain of existence relieve itself by achieving my goals? I cannot fathom a reality in which it feels as if dagger isn’t held at my throat, for the achievement of some nonexistent end. If I were to let go of this burden I assume I place upon myself, how would that affect me? What benefits do I reap from my pointless endeavor to punish myself into succeeding?
Perfection—I suppose—is the pointless endeavor I consistently fail to achieve. Gaps, holes, and blanks consume my mind with feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness. At times, however, I fall for the illusion that I have filled them, an illusion dispelled with the crashing waves of reality that overcome me.
What would happen if I did not care about what others think of me?
What would happen if I didn’t project my desperation for perfection onto the human objects of the subjects of my desires?
That transference—why does it break me in the end? I have come far on a road that lengthens as I pass it, a never ending journey, each step furthering myself on a course to an undefined somewhere that never emerges on the horizon of life.
If I let my scattered thoughts to scatter and scatter without laying them out to puzzle them together, would I forever remain broken? Even now, here and now, I attempt to gather the pieces and join them prettily and logically, yet I ultimately lose track of pieces hiding in the dark corners I don’t want to look into. I fear that I will hurt my mind and perception of the self if I bring those pieces into the stark reality of the light and look at them straight on, acknowledging them as enduring parts of my identity I don’t want.
Why would I do that?
I am fearful that my bleak intuitions reflecting the views of others are indicative of the true hideousness or ordinariness of myself that
I cannot bear to know.
I had never been told that it’s okay to be normal—I was supposed to be better than everyone on all measures. Falling short is an outcome that
I cannot accept, nor fathom.
That outcome, however, is an inevitable outcome. It is unavoidable and it is unescapable. Most, however, choose to know the reality that places them at the top of the heap, over and above all measures of any ability.
Rage reminds me of a red, thrashing hand. I imagine a focused point of pure impulse and destruction, so violent in its intentions yet so powerless against the massive forces that stand before it. Ignorance strikes Rage, and Rage burns brighter.
I feel that I am helpless and small, as if a tiny, worthless creature inhabits a bigger body and that bigger body is not my own.
The destination has always been clear at the end and each moment draws me in, closer. I cannot believe in that notion though—in my mind and in that of all other humans that we are Immortal, Unbreakable, and Everlasting in our essences.
We’re wrong, Obviously.
Who would accept the notion that nothing will ever be the same from moment to moment—and that endings are real. Stories continue in our minds after they have ceased to truly manifest themselves in the physical world.
Each moment of each day is a memory of last moments that passed our notice.