I am not perfect nor did I ever claim to be...

Yet I remember reaching out for perfection though it never came to me.

I yearned for its touch and hoped for its love but the blasted thing ran so far away from me.

How can it be that such a tease can have me chasing after its very steps in the hopes of claiming its illusionary image?

So blinded I am by the prize, I do not notice that its nothing but a mirage drawing me closer because of my foolish hope for its taste.

Now that I stand here empty handed once again gaining nothing but what I already had do I realize something of the utmost importance: Perfection is nothing but a fantasy created by billions as an aim to reach, a hope to become, laughably an illusion that never succumbs.