To look, to feel, admirable in pride. We are weak little creatures longing for “more.” There is a constant feeling to be the best, to be known and remembered. And yet some play it cool, act like they don’t care. I long to be more and I watch as my peers lay back. They are lax in complacency. I hold onto my thought, it is my prized possession. It is who I am. I watch in jealousy, and so now I play it cool.

I watch and believe they will never be better than me. I have more drive, more will. Despite this, I seek a deeper understanding. I relax my muscles, perk my chin, and walk up with a limp; a worthy mask. I hide my true desires and “have fun.” I butt myself into a conversation. 

Is this deception? To manipulate my peers into giving me pointless answers, all to never reveal my true intent and leave them behind like a stick in the mud; to still know I am better than them. Yet, now I play it cool. 

Why do I desire more?

Is it pure narcissism? The immature fantasy of being perfect. Do I wish for a small, negligible human to look up to me as a role model? Maybe I wish to be accepted… to be cool. 

Oh, how unhealthy this is. Perfection is impossible, let alone unrealistic, I know this. Resentment will always build in myself and a want for more turns into a hatred for anything short of my best. Progress feels like only achieving better and any set back feels like I’m worthless. 

Maybe I long for devotion. I wish for a driving factor to keep me disciplined and motivated. Maybe my need for perfection is my healer to all ambiguity in life. To fix problems rather than let them mingle.

“We’re breaking up, I’m sick of you!” Ah man, I’ll go work out. That gets my anger out.

Or, maybe, it is the cause of all ambiguity.

“I hate you, we’re done! I get no attention anymore! You’re always working out or doing something for baseball, I’m sick of it!”

Resentment in my soul builds again. My head is starting to hurt. I think I need a therapist. 

My father, a former D1 pitcher, screams from downstairs. I sit in my room, pondering, as he calls my name. It is time to work out again, for the second time today and fourth time this week. It’s only Tuesday. He himself won’t allow for anything less than perfect, anything less isn’t good enough. Maybe I feel like I’m not good enough. 

They do not deserve my freedom more than I do…

So why perfection?

Regardless of what causes it, resentment and hatred build. So many factors that I can’t let go of regardless of if it is bad for me. So why? It all leaves me so incomplete. 

So is my desire to feel complete? Is this not achievable in apathy? 

Perhaps, but these nights grow cold and I tire of this inner dialogue. No matter what, life is hard on its own. 

Perfection is who I’ve become. Yearning for more is who I am. 

I know nothing beyond reason. I do not wish for pressure, nor do I wish to be cooler than everyone. It all leads to resentment, bitterness, and stagnation. 

Maybe I live to be seen as normal. 

So what do I live for?

Simply, I live. I have made perfection my personality and now there is a constant hatred in my soul. I feel lost and hopeless. I live to be happy, but this is impossible. People misunderstand me, but people misunderstand everyone. People bicker, people overstep; they miscalculate their proximities. The inherent clumsiness of “being” guarantees conflict. Conflict is what I wish to avoid, but these points show where conflict is most felt. 

Is this not what I fight to avoid…what I ache for? 

Those awkward moments, attempts at connection, when my mask slips off and they stare into my real eyes. 

Maybe I wish for another shaking bundle of desire, draped in our beautiful flaws, whispering, “It’s okay. I am still here.”