I’ve been listening to this song for a fair bit now, and it’s served to lead me into something of a quandary: perfection. I am likely to come across as a cold-hearted cynic for this post. And be that as it may, these are my thoughts, and mine alone.
There is this archaic notion that perfection exists in the form of a mate to make us whole. After some thought, and quite a bit of it these last few years, I have determined that this is simply an antiquated concept perpetuated by individuals that cannot, or simply will not, grasp reality. We, as a whole, are not perfect. Humans are flawed. We are full of genetic defects, malformations, illnesses, and weakness; imperfection bounds with leaps and strides through our very physical constitution. On the inverse, we are rife with mental deficiencies that can render us invalid, cruel, and unstable. We possess traits that, while some may consider advantageous or desirable, others deem obnoxious and detrimental to an interpersonal relationship. Given that, it can potentially be said that a perfect person (see: mate) would be able to see past these imperfections, and accept us as we are. Therein lays the root of the fallacy: acceptance simply does not negate the flaws. That, and they are imperfect themselves, no matter our own acceptance.
How is it then, that we as perfectly imperfect creatures, can justifiably seek out a perfect person with whom we can find solace, completion, and acceptance, without spending the entirety of our lives alone? A perpetual quest for something or someone that does not and cannot exist, with the expectation of successfully acquiring such a pairing, should and does lead to depression all too often. Perfection is a lie. We are not expertly crafted cogs, seeking another cog with whom our teeth interlace with the precision of the Divine. We are messes. We are bearers of plague, pestilence, and deformity. We are the heralds of our own demise, and the trumpeters of the refuse. We are not meant to interface with one-another without a hitch. We are not intended to fit so effortlessly with another person that there cannot be encountered issues.
Now, please allow me to redeem myself, and show that I am not heartless and entirely devoid of compassion, love, or the capacity to care (although, I often wish that I were lately). As I previously stated, we are not meant to be perfect. Perfection is boring. Perfection breeds stagnation and boredom. When things fit too well, there leaves no room for growth and achievement. There cannot be goals, there cannot be progress, and there cannot be a drive to be better; perfection has attained these, and cannot be improved upon by its very definition. We need hiccups. We need competition. We need a drive to be more than we think we are. To acquiesce to life is to accept defeat, and inevitably death. Instead, we strive to fight it tooth and nail. We yearn to challenge ourselves and one-another consistently. We want more. We want better. We want perfect, but we don’t want to be perfect.
That is what a perfect mate would be. Perfection exists solely because of the pursuit to achieve it. Perfection is someone willing to work through the hardships, malformations in pairing, deformations of character and mind, and defects that persist through our species as a whole, all while you do the same with them.
Bah. I’ve lost my train of thought, and I honestly cannot think of what it was about this song, specifically, that triggered my postulation of this subject. All I can focus on right now is that we are imperfect, and to seek perfection is a fool’s errand. Instead, we should seek imperfection as close to ours as possible, while still allowing for malleability and moulding with one-another. To be perfect is to be impossible. Without room for growth and maturation, there is no reason to continue.