It is easier to focus on the past.
It's a lived experience, and the future makes us apprehensive;
And we live and have shared experiences,
And experience people in a new way every day.

But, often, we focus on perfection.
Things have to be perfect;
And, yet, often, we remind ourselves there is no such thing as perfect.

But, perhaps, there is.

Perhaps we are all perfect, but
We are imperfect when we meet another's perfect.
We begin to project our own selves, unfairly, unto the other person.
We call it flaws; she is flawed for not meeting my perfect.
And that is not fair.

We are but strangers, after all.
The great adventure would be to acknowledge another's individuality.
To explore them, wholly, without idealising our ideas of perfect on them.

There is fond joy in being wholly accepted for the person you are,
Instead of what people wish for you to be.
To be understood for your unique individualism,
Instead of being critiqued for your eccentric nature.

I am, but imperfect and flawed when not wholly accepted for being me.