People always tell you that your imperfections are what make you endearing to them, but you know better. That’s not true. If people could, they would always choose perfection over anything. The life of one that is suffering is hardly attractive; in contrast, the life of one who has everything is always, always, always appealing.
It’s empty, and you know that, everyone knows that–the life of one who has everything, who is everything perfect, is empty. It’s just the outside, like a porcelain shell, delicate, beautiful, but hallow inside, but that’s just the kind of perfection that people desire. It’s magnetism without weight, cold and brittle like old bones, but you want it anyway, doesn’t everyone?
Whoever says otherwise is lying, whether they know it or not.