This is the broken face of an undying push for perfection
While painting my masterpiece I edited it to death
The canvas has weakened with too many strokes of the brush
Yet I obsessively push on, fixing too much
Just one small detail there
Now the brush pushes through with each stroke
Yet I push on
I will push until there is nothing
What does this yield
I toil aimlessly toward a preconceived, self-imposed, fictitious perfection
WAKE UP!
Where is the end goal here, I’ve lost the purpose but still aim towards the goal
The goal that isn’t accomplishable
The goal that’s impossible accomplishment would yield nothing
To no one
This is masochism at its most refined
This is self-induced torture via highs and lows of pointlessness and hope
I am an empty house
My occupants shipped out long ago
In a frantic scramble to regain purpose
Or at least to regain support for failures
Someone to repair the leaks and creaks

But the reality sets in
The occupants aren’t coming back from vacation
I will exist, empty
Until these walls cave
No one will forever conduct upkeep
No, and the foundations already cracking
The paint is already chipping
This house will collapse
And be scavenged to build other constructs
And that will be the end

At this rate my masterpiece will be a tattered, frayed, unrecognizable canvas.
With nothing to offset this obsession I show no signs of letting up
I will drive into the ground until the wiring or the frame gives way