I’m not perfect. Nothing or nobody is. Not even God, if one exists.
A perfect God would create a perfect world. And everyone would just sit back and complain about there being nothing to complain about. Or maybe, everyone would just be too perfect to complain.
Either way, I have no need for a perfect world, for a perfect world would, by definition and induction, be devoid of me.
Not that I have great need for the world that enlists me as a constituent, either. While I do happen to be in it, it is either by accident or by particularly crude design. If it is by design, someone needs to take the blueprints and give the designer a potent whack on the back of the head. Or maybe the designer has no head, leading to the entire conundrum in the first place.
If it is by accident, then, as accidents go, it is probably a mild one, that will have no major consequence in the long run. I am a small bump in a vast expanse of terrain, there are many bumps and craters larger and smaller than me. In the absence of a designer, such a terrain might still be called smooth; if a designer is present, the proper response would be “What sort of idiot thinks this surface can, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a highway?!!?”
The world isn’t a perfect place. And I’m certainly not a perfect person. I have no problem with either of those facts. The slight issue I have lies in my imperfections and the world’s not being a bit more aligned with each others’. There might be more than just a hint of greed and egocentrism in that previous statement, but those are just facets of my imperfect personality. The world will have to live with my imperfections, just as long as I have to live with its.
I understand that all of this is going nowhere. But it is just a bunch of words written by an imperfect resident of an imperfect world, possibly created by an imperfect God. And while one might think that the whole thing has gone in a perfect circle, the stark reality is that nothing is perfect—not even circles.
