to live for perfection or accept ... all

Everybody, everywhere has an opinion and ideal of perfection. One world in which so any existences lie parallel to each other, each entirely unaware of the other’s existence. An apartment building pregnant with tenants who scurry past each other while attending to the tedious affairs of their chosen lives. Never smiling, or frowning or wondering about the stories occupying the minds of their anonymous neighbors. Every seemingly miniscule choice determines a person’s life. Even those who refuse to play the game of existence, by their very refusal are declaring an opinion which cements them as bricks into the thunderous real estate of the universe’s metropolis. And yet a generality such as love manages to somehow weave her colors into the many individual existences and bring them together so that somehow one apartment building is inevitably connected to the other on a street full of strangers. So while a person can imagine that he or she may live their lives exactly as they want, without encountering any disturbances, disturbance is the only solid element of this unexplainable chaos that is definite. A person is nothing more than a summation of every parallel existence that they have been forced to cross into by the ways of disturbance. Perfection, is therefore a non-existence which floats above the realm of all our parallel existences daunting us with her purely circular, mathematical simplicity. We are all her slaves, because it is she that we all hope to be. We breathe, eat, work, create, sleep, love, all in the aim of living an ideal. My only question is why?