Despite what you may have been told you are far from perfect. It would be a great pity for you to think this, if you think you are perfect, I pity you.
No sweet scent, a tantalising aroma propelled from a shimmering glass vessel can aid you in beguiling your truthful, hideous odour, that of self-obsession and existential inadequacy, I know this for I share the same odour, yet I do not silently consider myself a flawless manifestation of human life.
Never think a name embroidered onto your garments raises your seat in the social hierarchy, never think your ability to fell another, your occupation, your intuition or your appearance changes the fact you’re all helpless marionettes attached to the same withered, pale, yet all-dominating hand of hegemony.
You’re not free.
You’re not perfect.
You’re not special, significant, or going to change anything.
Stay in your own province of assorted woe with your other woeful kindred.
You may be an important part of their lives, if only because they have to depend on you for their mental prosperity or perhaps even the money you are destroying your soul for.
So crumble along with them and your unnecessary plethora of material possessions, your slow cookers, Parker pens and silver collection, for then you can return to the dust…for we’re all just dust waiting to settle.