Perfection does not allow me to be real, not to be honest. On the other hand imperfection does.

Perfection does not allow me to enjoy the freedom of admitting I was wrong; and how wrong I am!

Perfection does not allow me to improve since either that what is already perfect can’t be. That what is required to be perfect, will never be.

Perfection does not allow me to enjoy the fleeting moments of esthetics of that time in that space and that moment of becoming. I thought as a child one story was a perfect story, now I perceive its shortcomings; soon I might enjoy it again for its potential.

Perfection does not allow for potentials.

Perfection does not allow me to tinker, to reconsider, to reflect, to undo, to redo, to implement the wishes of myself; let alone another.

Perfection is simply imperfect. Perfection is a substandard construct of a warped mind, and this idea here, in itself as well, is an illusion or rather a fixation as much as perfection is.
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Perfection does not allow me to be ethically considerate. It’s simply on or it is not.

Perfection does not allow me to wonder. Perfection is without a doubt perfect since if doubt arose it would not be perfect; I wonder about this though.

Perfection  does not allow me to enjoy my and surely not your idiosyncrasies.

Perfection does not allow me to appreciate to exception to its rule.

Something that does not allow me to become in so many ways, is it perfect?

--animasuri'17
Beijing subway line 10
9 May 2017