Distance from the _D_ivine

While I detest any notion of perfection, in any pragmatic sense, I am enamored by the proximity in which we exist relative to all kind of perfect. We craft notions of perfection and seem to know just how far they are away. Only then to place them just out of arms reach. Theoretically attainable, but practically impossible.

Even our minds as they dance around our bodies and the world, seem to graze upon the shores of the Divine, with profound thoughts not far from the mundane - the normalcy and gravity of which we fail to comprehend. We are almost too close to notice the spectacular proximity of our casual ponderances, with which we instead invent insurmountable artifical distance.

Perhaps it is in our nature then, that we strive to be “endlessly striving” as Shoepenhaur phrases it. We detest the possibility of interacting with the divine or achieving perfection, perhaps a cruel biological mechanism to keep us striving, even if against our will. Even if we are to fixate on what is futile, mull over the mundane, and bear down on the boring - all the more to keep momentum moving around the ouroborusthat circles the drain of perfection.

How sublime that irony is. And with such indignance do we face this folly. Funny, kind of.