No one is perfect.

Some should try harder. Consider the bulls eye, the no hitter, the Eight-ender.

Screw shy!

Roll twelve strikes in a row. Hit for the cycle. Fire off a hole in one.

What tired, timid, twiddling soul ever roared down a track and won a hundred meter race?

And yet, try as we might and “fight, fight, fight,” Solomon remains — the old rub-a-dub-dub in the broken golden tub, the shattered self at the spring, the wasted wheel at the well.

Aim for perfect — and adjust. The perfect pass encounters the perfect defense. The perfect back-dive, the imperfect judge. The perfect novel a stolid public. The perfect effort? It often falls just short of perfection.

The perfect body is like the perfect car; both won’t wait long for the perfect scratch, or the exquisitely perfect wrinkle.

Eventually we all let go. Perfectionism is finally loved on the day she weds realism.

So, both are good. It is good to enjoy the long and exhausting assault march on perfection’s jutting peak, and it is equally good to thrill to the frenzied, crazy bounce down reality’s rushing stream.

He who has imperfect ears to hear let him hear perfectly!

Those who never strive for perfection should beware of relaxation, and those who can never relax, they should beware of always trying to be perfect


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