Perfection is a poem

I consider myself a perfectionist. At face value, that is something to be proud of — to take pride in your work. But there are always hidden implications, and honestly these are extremely fatiguing. I needed a cure for all the second-guessing. And then I found not one, but three.

The Ending with No End

I chase a leaf blowing in the wind, a stray page from the land of lost endings. It sings an alto melancholy, of melodies that will never come into being.

One tale in particular beckons to me, with the easy charm of an old friend. It promises a timeless story, the only ending with no end.