He’s Perfect, But I Suck


No, I don’t mean he’s perfect in the sense that he’s perfect for me.

I mean he’s ideal. He’s perhaps Perfect; yes, Perfect with a capital P. He’s the form that Plato sang about in ancient Greece. And I don’t mean this in a subjective I’m-in-love-with-him-therefore-he-is-Perfect way either. I don’t feel that he is perfect; I observe. But even then, I have no good reason for attributing his being perfect to the ideal form of Perfect; to my knowledge, or lack thereof, I could be beguiling myself. Perhaps this all is just the mere appearance of truth Truth. It may still just be subjective, a construct of my mind.

Let me elaborate. I want to attempt to describe the way in which I perceive his essence as constitutive of Perfectness. Note the distinction: Perfectness, not Perfection. He is not Perfection. He possesses a perfectness that makes me feel ashamed of myself. Despite my achievements and efforts, I feel inferior; I am not good enough. He is perfect because he has fulfilled his highest capacities – intellectual, moral, creative, emotional, social. He achieved this perfection. He is smart. He is kind. He is in touch with nature. He loves his family. And most importantly, he cares.

He’s perfect. He’s perfect in a way that makes him deserve someone better than me. I have decided; I will stay out of his way. He deserves the best and he deserves someone worthy of him. Someone equally perfect. Someone equally noble. Someone who can achieve her own Perfectness. Someone who is not me.

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