Perfection

"I love you, too."

Perfection

In the solemn garden of gray, plain faces, have you yet met the one that glows? The face that stands out and beckons to you – and whispers to you, "You have found me," over the incomprehensible racket of the throng that stood between. You have not seen that face before but you recognize it. You knew that face. You have caressed it countless times over the course of a million vague but blissful dreams.

And suddenly, all vagueness is dispelled when you first lay eyes on that face. Your life – your entire existence will funnel into that millisecond of recognition and intense clarity. This is the moment you’ve been living for. With an upwelling smile that threatens to explode within you, you’ll tell yourself; "This is it." You’ll repeat that emphatically with joyful tears pooling behind your eyes; “This is it.”

This is Love at First Sight.

“This is it.”

What ensued will be madness with great dollops of folly and extra helpings of nerve. You’ll wade across the crowd, shaking off those who try to hold you back and shove those who stood in the way. It matters not how hard it is, nor how far. All you know is that you rather die trying than to lose sight of her – and never again find her.

And when you actually reach to stand by her side, you’ll see that she was lovelier up-close than you have or can ever imagined. She was everything you’ve been expecting and a whole world more. She’s exquisite. She’s flawless.

She’s Perfect.


I know all about Perfection. I know because I love her.

Perfection bears the danger of rendering everyone around her inadequate. Perfection magnifies the most insignificant of blemishes and faults into the most hideous leprosy. You’ll know when you have met Perfection when you loathe the sight of yourself in the mirror. Perfection can make you small. Perfection had made me small.

I’m not good enough for Perfection. I was forced to let her go because she belongs to someone much better, greater than me. I had to turn and walk away – broken and incomplete. You can’t leave Perfection without leaving most of yourself behind.

I knew then at the first step of walking away that I’ll always look back – stealing glances now and again of that one face that held me captivated over a crowd of featureless faces, and had told me that I’ve "found" her years ago. And I’ll carry with me always that empty space within me which aches now without respite.

That ache will remind me – whether I’m thirty, fifty, or one hundred years old – that I have once stood in the light of Perfection.

And my heart has never left her.



Imperfect,
k0k s3n w4i