The Problem of Perfection

I’ve been hurled into a frenzy of thought by the revelation of the cover of my favourite band’s next single:

 

My initial thought was its interesting subtext. Of how it implies that perfection doesn’t entail beauty. And I still think it’s an amazing idea and an interesting sentence to have on the cover: it challenges the orthodox view of perfection. The orthodox view being that: amongst all the qualities that a perfect thing might have, beauty must be there. This cover states: a perfect thing doesn’t need beauty to be perfect.

Now, that’s great and slightly inspirational if you halt at that point.

However, in my consideration, I didn’t stop there. It made me think of what perfection actually is and whether it can exist.

When I think of “perfect”, the definition that comes to mind is: consistently having every favourable attribute imaginable.

So let’s consider Mr X and Mr Y. 

Mr X’s perfect lady is flawless in beauty and likes everything that he likes and to him has absolutely no imperfection.

Mr Y’s perfect lady must have flaws because otherwise, to him, she is cold and unreal. Mr Y’s perfect lady doesn’t need to be beautiful - that is immaterial. Mr Y’s perfect lady has all the right cons and all the right pros - a balance so right that it creates perfection to him.

To Mr X, Mr Y’s perfect lady has far too many imperfections and he detests her. To Mr Y, Mr X’s perfect lady isn’t perfect at all because he doesn’t think like Mr X and therefore barely gets along with his perfect lady.

Now, what we’ve got here is perfect being both perfect and imperfect at the exact same time. That is: P does not equal P. 

If then, perfect is not consistent, if one perfect clashes directly with another perfect, then is there any need for the constant search for it? Perfection as “consistently having all the favourable attributes imaginable” doesn’t exist, so what is the use in chasing something non-existent? You can’t try to be perfect because in doing so, you will never be happy. Pleasing everybody is an impossible action - that would only be realistic in a world wherein everybody was the same. And that’s not the case, nor would I like it to be the case. Things would be rather boring, then.

It seems that, although sometimes I forget, I have to remember that perfect is nothing and therefore nothing is perfect. Everything is imperfect - perfect lacks true meaning - and so no one thing is truly better than another. There is no agreeable scale. One can only act as one believes one should in order to exact desirable outcomes.

I don’t know what world I’m painting out with these revelations, but I’m getting closer to an understanding of how to be. And the problem of perfection seems to spiral back to the old adage of being yourself. But I think a better adage might be: be a self that makes you happy, despite external scrutiny.

It’s getting late. I’ll clock off now.