Perfection is a faux. It’s a mask carved by our own poor esteem to hide who we really are and make others see what really isn’t us.

Perfection is inexistent. It is the short-lived joy of muddling in the dips of a superficial life in a bid to bury who we really are.

We are all goofs of ourselves no matter how perfect the lives of some may seem. But when we embrace our flaws and work with it, sometimes, just sometimes, we get it right.

Perfection is a lie, and lying to others is explicable but lying to oneself is the highest form of deceit.