"It's perfect!" I shout to the barista. My mouth puckers a little as I turn away - the espresso in my drink is a touch overextracted, and the acid pulls my tongue magnetically to the roof and sides of my mouth. It could be better

But it's perfect for what it is: a tiny bitter-sour-creamy-darksmoke cuppa, more of a prop than anything; a signifier to myself that I'm about to sit and point my eyes out and my thoughts in and get something meaningful, in whatever way, out of my brain and my fingers and into the bits that are close enough to real these days to count.

And then I wonder why, or how, I tend not to give myself the same gracious room, the same grade of close-enough-to-count, that I give to a cortado, or the rain shield of my tent, or any one of dozens of still-loved ones who've let me down in minor ways over the years. All these things could be better, and yet for what they are in the moment that I experience them, they are what they need to be and what I need, and that makes them perfect

And the logical next step of considering myself, whatever that concept is made up of in any particular even hard to type. It seems too egotistical, too divorced from the reality i've been assuming is true - the one where I'm too deeply flawed even to own my more positive traits because they're all outweighed, and everyone else is just as flawed but somehow good enough, and I'm not.


I'm perfect.

For the moment. For myself. For the universe as it is now and continues to be, because this is what I am in the context of this time and place, and all other points are moot.