Imperfection

I’m tired of making mistakes. I’m even more tired of getting things right. Nothing is happening. Everything is safely in slow motion, played backwards, edited and clarified. I despise that kihnd of professionalism. What is more beautiful than a misspelled word or a birthmark on the side of the face? There is so much beauty in error.

It’s not that I am saying that people should go around and demolish the human language with error, but a deliberate change in the system can be so eloquent if done correctly. To mar perfection, or so it’s called, is to be an artist. Am I right? The man who murders a white canvas with a red brush is a disturber of the peace, but what comes out of it is this thing called art. Those who frown on imperfection are merely negating their own humanity. Man is the greatest imperfection. The man who wears the scars is the canvas of a source of greater power. Those who lack the physiognomy of the scarred man are not the one’s in power because they will never know true imperfection.