I think the ironic beauty of perfection, as I believe we so often understand yet struggle to define its unequivocal nature, is that it doesn’t need to materially exist to be felt.
It exists only in the ephemeral possession of perspective. In the great fleeting, feeling life of the artist.
I believe this is the just knowing people are often talking about, or confused by, or both:
The moments in which we step into the role as the artist of our own lives, alchemizing perfection in seen beauty and other people and life’s serendipities—all of the places where we choose to believe it could be. Standing back with palette in hand and calling the moments, in time and in memory, peace.
The realm of possibility in perspective-taking is enormous, but the simultaneous strength of negative affect cannot be understated. The forces of our capacity here, I find, don’t always balance out.
In the world of social media—the heinous and expanding internet of things—we are no longer obligated to face reality, or choose to know it. Living in delusion has never been more rewarding and accessible.
What’s more, we have not evolved to entirely comprehend the spiritual and psychological value of what is good for us; of choosing to notice perfection in the moments of our lives we find beautiful; of making peace where it does not exist.
We have evolved instead to remember what has the potential to harm us in order to keep us alive—so much so the remembering can become its own form of harm.
Such as it is, I found myself on this rope of potential.
I found myself defining the quality of my life by the cutting texture of its fibers, always rougher than I remember: The one between euphoria and dysphoria, between validation and rejection, laden with moralistic judgements and fear.
I now believe in no better fuel for internal chaos than an afforded fear of what might cause us harm.
Looking out at the world, or into oneself—whilst choosing to perceive perfection in the liminal, fleeting beauty contained within—is perhaps the most radically artful act of human existence we have left.