Citizens, life is not always pretty. This world is full of faded colors, gas station bathrooms, and lopsided flower arrangements.
But we of the Collective do not consider this criticism. A world of relentless perfection would be a wax museum, lifeless and disturbing in its monotony. What is Marilyn without her mole, and who denies that Cindy’s mark made her?
Perfection leaves no room for other pursuits. No time for making ties from tinsel, siphoning water with pasta, or singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in Portuguese. Who would dance the wind in spring renounces perfection and embraces the off-kilter rhythms of the organic.
Imperfection is the crescendo of the human symphony. We are the missed note, the dropped beat, the dog in the tutu. Our tainted selves give richness to everything we touch.
So center yourself to the left, lean into the sun, and let the shade find you living brighter. Practice your strident staccato with the crickets of the field. Chase what you are with every step.
