What a silky, treacherous word.
We hide behind it and luxuriate in our high standards.
We, the barons of Ivory Pages,
Rise above our mediocre peers
who underwhelm us daily with their wide-eyed, bourgeois creations.
We mock their innocence and vulnerability.
Eh, it’s quite endearing to some degree, if we’re honest.
Cute is a better word. Like a puppy licking our face.
Then we get intrigued by their nerve.
Their annoying grit.
They fall, of course, and we rejoice in their humiliation.
I told you, buddy.
They’re on their knees wiping the eggs off their glasses.
But they get up.
Like exasperating toddlers who won’t sit down once they’ve learned to walk.
We see them getting noticed.
We get blinded by their limelight.
In their shadow,
we, the persnickety,
blue-blooded laborers keep busy polishing our work
Like sculptors rubbing blocks of wood until it’s nothing left of them
But chocking dust
And the musky scent of shame and failure.
… Oh, perfectionism.
What a silky, treacherous word…