I reached the conclusion only recently that perfection should be defined as the ultimate frontier one reaches in tolerating annoying details in an often dreamed-of experience. And it so appears that it is the small –let’s call them- imperfections that contribute in reinstating the perfect experience as something earthly, as something that one really experiences and eventually owns; unlike a trip aided by substances of organic or not origin, that you vaguely remember the day after in a fog of lethargy and dismissal. And still even in those moments, the shear grasp of the mishap and the relativism will momentarily define perfection in that specific time localized event.
Simple examples. You reach Barbados, like Alain de Boton after a hectic flight. You went there in search of the immaculate white powder sand beach and you are faced with a dull dysfunctional airport, traffic, industrial monsters, you reach your destination only to discover the misconception your assumption induced, no hot water, flies, humidity, and what not. That wasn’t what you imagined when you read Barbados, is it? De Boton blames it all on oneself; ah you brought it with you, that murky pessimistic ol’ bastard and while yourself will be there, you never get a perfect moment; for it is not Barbados but you. So, do you recall those perfect moments back “at home”?
Actually the fact that a perfect moment can be purely framed by the imperfection around it, reminds me of Aristotle’s definition of concepts through their antonym. There it goes again, someone has already thought (and written) about it. I should have posted this one centuries ago.