"nobody's perfect."
not true. i'm perfect. or at least i was, for a moment, last night.
how can that be, you ask? ask her, not me.
you see we all, each, have the capacity to see and be perfection, but it is wholly the privy and predilection of the perception of an individual.
for just as perfect as i may have been, she has more so been for me. and so have others, in their respective moment of glory. for sometimes perfection is not a matter of accounting for everything, but rather how we recount to everyone— the story. and most importantly, how we feel the tale tickles us, ourselves.
before last night, i was sure of two things—perfection is possible, and it is ephemeral, at least in the realm of recorded time.
now, i'm sure of three. not only, can it be and when it is, it is fleeting, but it is also most certainly is "relatively" perfect to one person at one time.
one might counter "but everything is relative." yes, but perfection's relativity is really, really, really relative. so rare is perfection itself that its relativity is equally so, thus it is "raritivity" really. really, it is. and it may be only because I say it's so.
well, i do concede that the exception will always be—the sublime, the rare and bare bind, that union of two who share nothing but one another, who lose themselves in the other, and in essence have a conversation with God.
nod, if you know what i mean.
now, lean to the left, then lean to the right.
for darling, here and now, you are perfect to me tonight.
~ Andy Rooney
the art of love
l.m