I study this bloom’s perfection, a frustrated cartographer attempting to map its borders and penetrate its secrets. Each gradation of color and shape, from the tightly bunched pale pink inner petals to the gently ragged but deeper colored outer petals, merges into a harmonious whole. I couldn’t imagine it formed any way other than this–which is my definition of perfection.
Why couldn’t I repeat this perfection in a different form? Why couldn’t I tell a pincushion bloom of a story, one without a single superfluous word or emotion that compels a reader to say I couldn’t imagine this tale told any other way. Aspiring to create the perfect reading experience is a bold and maybe even perilous ambition, but to quote Helen Keller, “Life is either a daring adventure or it’s nothing.”
Do you agree? Would we all be happier aiming for what we know we can achieve? Or is failing often yet still trying to achieve lofty goals what make life worth living?