Monday, 3 February 2014


Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving. None of the things that come out of your fingers may be right: keep moving. The internet may tell you that you are a fool: keep moving. The words you said to your friend or your lover or yourself or the world may be wrong: keep moving. Say more things. Make more art. Be an ever-wriggling man-of-war with tentacles all the way to the base of the sea. There is no backing out of this world and the only thing to do with the wrong thing is to bury it in all the new decisions. The ones that may or may not be right.

But listen, you say, I am afraid. I am terrified of all the things I did that weren't the right things. I want to apologise to the world. Here is your apology: moving. You know, I am proud of you and everything you set out on the surface like skimmed stones. I know you weren't ready for that one to sink. In your hand it seemed so perfect, so smooth, so round. Your wrist seemed so flicked. Who was to know that as soon as it skiffed the surface, it would turn out to be for naught?

This is okay. I know you are a creature of terror and nightshade. I know you smell so sweet in the mornings, when your warm breath falls on the pillow, slightly stale and full of twisted dreams. You do not need to always leap and chisel those things away. Your quest for perfection is a stub-armed dinosaur trying to pick quarters from the sidewalk. Your thighs are too big for the bend. Listen, sweetheart, you are doing better than you think you are. You’re doing well enough for me.

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