Perfect Imperfection

One day I was drifting amongst the crowd, soaking in the word of the masses; The currents of life caressing me. I saw a manequin, oh she was gorgeous. Perfect blonde hair, painted grey eyes, she was so precise men would stop and stare. I found myself wondering, what was it about her that was so impressing, what drew us in so much. It was perfection, perfection that drew our gaze. Looking around, finding I was not the only one enthralled, I turned back to ponder this madonna of wood and plastic. I found in her eyes no warmth, no humor or spark of life. It chilled me. Is our world so expectent of perfection that we look for it in the products of our own hands? When we find perfection is unatainable by our own mere mortals, do we look to our immortals? Or superheros in the sky. We create for ourselves perfect deitys, living ideals . Now we have an excuse for our only human imperfection, for no one can be god[s]. Humans are so afraid of failure, looking for any means to justify. Tearing myself away from the immortal doll, diving into the swirl of persons, covering myself in perfect, imperfection.