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I had managed to delude myself into thinking that perfection was something real, something that was actually attainable. And in doing so I strived for it. The whole reach for the sky and land among the stars thing is crap by the way. A lie of epic proportions, words dressed up to put a positive spin on reality. We try and fail and we try again in a never-ending cycle of falling short of impossible goals. It’s poetically masochistic, we like the failure because we spin it into success and we know we can do better next time. If we reached perfection where would we go? If we did on the first try, where is the sense of accomplishment? That feeling you can only get after a multitude of mistakes. Hard work yields a greater reward, when you finally get as close to perfection as you can and you not only accept, but also embrace it. The problem develops when perfection is the only measure of success. When simply failing better isn’t good enough, when making the fewest mistakes isn’t a signal that you’ve succeeded and is instead proof of continued failure, proof that you’re still a ‘fuck up.’ That was my tripping point. Good and great weren’t enough, excellent was a meaningless compliment, the adjective beautiful was patronizing when it was applied to my work. Any of those assessments applied to other’s work were accurate compliments. ‘Could’ve done better,’ was recurring thought in various permutations for twelve years, a constant in a world of variables and x factors.  


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