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Being a perfectionist is not like being a hamster on a wheel, it’s more like Waiting for Godot.
Perfect promises to be there soon, sends messages like “it’s almost good enough!” and “keep trying!” and worse, “don’t bother unless it’s flawless.”
There is no appeasing Perfect, because no mortal can create a Platonic ideal. Crying, whining, and begging does not bring Perfect to the scene of the crime. It sits outside of action, withdrawn from effort, judging from a distance with an impossible standard in hand. We think we see it, right there, on the horizon, until we collapse in despair with the realization that Perfect is somewhere else and probably not even paying attention.
The geniuses we revere were more often than not displeased with their efforts, complaining about imperfections we cannot see, hear, or understand. Yet still they persisted. Was it dogged pursuit of Perfect that made them great? Or did they simply stop caring about it? Maybe the difference is that they stopped actively waiting, and started actively creating?
Perfect cannot be captured or caged and cannot be relied upon. Maybe not caring is the right response to the mockery of Waiting for Perfect. Maybe impatient despair is not inspiration, but satire.
We wait. We complain. We crumble.
The joke is on us.
