i am a perfectionist. i know this. i am (almost) at peace with it. others, it seems, are not. in fact, from a very early age it was not only commented on, but seen as detrimental to the formation of my personality. teachers would write in my school reports that i was 'performing extremely well', but, was often upset when i could not achieve something, albeit to the best of my ability. in their eyes, this was, ultimately, a bad thing. i am still unsure of why.
these days, my quest for perfect is most applicable to the work i am producing for my Masters. so much so, however, that instead of spending hours painstakingly attempting to create 'masterpieces' of literary criticism, i end up thinking 'fuck it', i'll never achieve greatness, this essay will never be anything beyond satisfactory for me. and thus, i am not at peace as such with my imperfections, i merely understand now that they are inescapable. kind of.