On The Beauty Of Scars, or Give Me Mistakes

Perhaps the most dangerous modern conception, which has become something beyond a simple idea, a simple concept, and now resembles a contemporary goal of life, even more than a strand of human subjectivity, is that of perfection. It’s almost impossible nowadays to allow ourselves to identify and accept the different notions of the perfectness each of us possesses when the standard is like a pill for everyday headache — I don’t blame this pattern any longer for the state of lack of human originality in which we we find ourselves in, I understand that in many cases the rampant race to reach this standard is much more an escapist way of dealing with blindness in the face of reality than anything else. It hurts less for the woman who does not fit the beauty pattern to fight for fitting it eventually, than to open her eyes to the control that the beauty pattern exerts on all of us. It hurts less for the poor to believe that with a lot of effort he can be rich one day, than to open his eyes to the control that the economic standard exerts on all of us. It hurts less to be ignorant than to be enlightened. It’s less painful to live in the darkness of insipidity than to have to learn to assimilate the clarity of erudition. Being a masochist, as you can see, is not yet the general rule.

It’s not that I hate the idea of ​​perfection, but the imperfect is much more interesting in my eyes. What the patterns think it’s a defect seems to me, in fact, what delimits the oneness of each one of us. You cannot learn anything from perfection. Once you reach this level of excellence, I have the impression that a gray monotony will go through all the paths that the fully virtuous human being will choose to cross. He can learn nothing from the inaccuracies he will find on these roads, and, as much as he possesses all the magisteriality of the world, I don’t believe that he can escape the inevitable arrogance of someone who knows it all, thus hindering the transmission of the perfection secrets . In short: perfection is the type of solitude that, if we think about it, not even us, introverts, like it. The perfect one has nowhere to go, after all. For the reason we are out there (sometimes without direction, other times already knowing well what we want) is because something inside us drives us to want to explore the unknown, to want to improve what we consider necessary to improve, to simply want to know things. If we were beings without any kind of inner or outer error, subjective or objective, we would need nothing of the intricate paths that the world offers us. Perfection is a boring solitude.

I believe that perfection is not the answer to all our doubts, because he who no longer has the need to question himself loses the essential function that gives all the grace of living. He is like the man too young to understand the sorrows that afflict him, he goes through these moments without being aware of the reality that surrounds him. For him everything is fine, everything is in order and ‘perfect’, but there is the sadness that permeates everything that relates to him, for this or that reason, and he cannot perceive this feeling of others. This is what it means to be in a permanent state of perfection, you lose your sensitivity to everything that concerns the world that we, the unworthy, belong to. You may ask me how I can be sure of such facts, if I am far from achieving the minimum level of perfection. It turns out that more than the faulty ones, the types we most have to deal with are those who believe that their souls are so splendid that nothing else is necessary for them to evolve. They are the false perfect ones who, like the false prophets, exude an equivocal notion of what is sublimity; they are only perfect in pretending to know perfection, and on account of that we often deceive ourselves. And I, as a perfectly imperfect person, always trying to learn or to improve what I already know, I think it is our obligation to take one or another lesson from the existence of these people. Between being perfect, imperfect and pretending to be virtuous, what do you prefer? Imperfection, at least, is honest.

I repeat: it is not that I hate perfection, despite constantly striving against standards. I just think it’s very sad how modernity forces us to accelerate our growth process in the search for archetypes of virtues that don’t correspond with the totality of the diversity of who we are. I think defects complete us and that even when we don’t have them anymore, we are able to pass on, to those who still face them, everything we learn from these flaws, because we still remain imprecise beings. There is nothing wrong with dwelling on your mistakes. It is preferable, moreover, that people take the time they deem necessary to savor the displeasure of the consequences of being so inconsequential. Only then will we be able to learn to be ourselves rather than to imitate patterns.

It is very simple, if we were not so attached to the complicated: there is perfection in imperfection.