I agree that you are the epitome of perfect everything you do is impeccable, flawless your life is free of paint splatters– unless they are symmetrical– wild, unbridled adventures– unless they are in your schedule– loops of messy cursive– unless they are precisely designed to embody a particular style–
and nothing you do is ever wrong ever disorderly ever imperfect
but what are you now that you can produce perfection? can you say with the pure honesty you are so proud of that you are free? that you are not a slave to what you make?
did you ever stop cleaning wiping erasing redoing rewriting to notice that you have eradicated with blind disdain and vehement prejudice what might be considered art?
that the joy of flawlessness is not real– just the temporary absence of fear?
that true, natural, unplanned beauty has become not only your enemy but a lethal weapon?
that maybe in your relentless process of perfecting you have generated imperfection?