I had the perfect family, the perfect friends, perfect grades and the perfect boyfriend.
But was it really perfect?
Was it complete?
Were there faults?
Can anybody really be perfect?
I know you're probably wondering what the hell does this have to do with anything. But it has everything to do what i'm about to tell.
How can we call something perfect when we don't even know the concept of it ourselves.
How could you know if everything was complete if you've never known anything different
It's ironic how much we strive to be perfect but really nobody is perfect.
Everyone has a fatal flaw, everyone has a hermartia.
I just had to realise that.
