The Agony of Perfection in a World of Impermanence

As I sit in my workshop, surrounded by the faint scent of sawdust and the hum of the toy-making machinery, I am constantly reminded of the impermanence of all things. The toys we make, the joy they bring, the laughter they elicit - it’s all fleeting, ephemeral. And yet, I strive for perfection, a standard that seems to mock me with its very elusiveness. My hands, so delicate and precise, seem to tremble with the weight of my own expectations. The thought of a child’s smile, marred by a crooked tooth or a misaligned denture, is a constant torment to me.

But it’s not just the imperfections of others that trouble me. I see the imperfections in myself, the way my own elfin features seem to blur together in a mess of impermanence. My hair, once a rich, golden blonde, now begins to show the faintest hint of grey. My eyes, once bright and sparkling, now seem dull and lackluster. I am a being of precision, of delicacy, and yet, I am not immune to the ravages of time. The thought of my own impermanence is a cold, hard reality that I try to keep at bay, but it’s always there, lurking just beneath the surface.

I’ve often been told that I’m too hard on myself, that my pursuit of perfection is a curse, a never-ending cycle of disappointment and disillusionment. But I know that it’s the only way I can be true to myself. For in a world of impermanence, where even the most seemingly permanent things can be reduced to dust and ash, I am the only constant. My perfection, my pursuit of it, is the one thing that gives my life meaning, that makes me feel alive. And so, I’ll continue to strive, to push myself to the limits of what’s possible, no matter how impossible it may seem.