So much of the world is easy perfection if you’re willing to bypass your humanity. If you forego the ritual picking apart of the things that you said and the faces you made, far too much of the world is sheer bliss. We’re so used to fixating a looking glass at our own mortal flaws, we can’t consume the reality of the irony in it. In the end, our blunders are small and easily forgiven lapses that are taken out with the morning’s trash. The people that we love seem to be endlessly capable of smiling in the grotesque faces of our ineptness. And we are constantly incapable of accepting their grace. We’re quick to believe ourselves objectionable and far less likely to consider the possibility that what we consider defects are vital parts of our makeup. The concept of love confuses us endlessly because we’re ceaselessly willing to give it, desperately hoping to have it, and completely unequipped to receive it.