Perhaps the Church was right to teach that one should discard one’s belongings and pass them to those who lacked their own.
It was an abundance of things, which made one hesitate in the face of a journey. That was all the truer for life itself.
When the mind grows empty and receptive, tranquility and creative dreams rush in — unless the perfectionist’s hunger is craving for a different meal, deprived of all healthiness. Silently, doubts of work, goals, known imperfections creep in, and all raise their shrieking voices. A crowd of thousand armed people romp about the brain, heat it up, emanate unrest, shut out any silence or tranquility.
No stone is left unturned, no letter written untouched — even the smallest pixel and pieces of fluff otherwise unseen are rigorously analyzed by the sadistic thinker. A mistake? A potential of future failure hidden between the lines? A chance for a bug to enter and crawl between the electric tubes?
The perfectionist is never at ease. Silence, tranquility, all washed away — needless sorrows, self-inflicted pain, waryness, distrust replace the calm. Distrust of the stressed out, perfectionist self, distrust of more healthy beings.
Is there an escape route? A way out? A road, a rainbow leading to forlorn silence?
Perfection’s embrace is warm and industrious. Zealous individuals persevere, rewarded with idealistic satisfaction. But before long it perishes, the vicious deluge of imperfections and the incoming tide of new challenges roar closer. A vicious circle, continuous struggle, helpless fight. Hatred and anguish, when obstacles can not be overcome. Fear, worry, pain and more anguish when more healthy beings do not join the perfection, mutating to fiends transmuting the perfection to a lacking and defect image in the eyes of the perfectionist, even if striving towards a common goal when regarded with the objective beholder’s eyes.
Distance is key. The sight of the roaring tide is less scarifying if one takes flight — become a bird, taking the possible steps flap by flap towards the ideal, not craving perfection of all.
How is it done? Who keeps the secret keys to the cabinet, hiding the wings to escape from this oppression? Who can stop the bleeping noises, the endless ringing in the ears, the utterances and sorrows of the million coalescing voices assembling in the brain?
The self it is. Lockdown of noises, distancing, love of imperfections, focussing on gradual progress — hard to achieve, but worth the struggle of life.