The perfection of imperfection.
A series of imperfections, any life or person. Perfect, isn’t reality.
Memories are always of the imperfect. The quirkiness of a person is often the crux of their charm. The imperfections of anything is often it’s strongest catalyst for interest.
A person’s inner struggle is often related to their perceived imperfection. My own struggles not withstanding. To tell someone to forget these struggles is as trite as having them in the first place.
The idiosyncrasies of an individual are intrinsic.
I remember the way I felt when my Dad would try to be “cool.” I remember how unbelievably annoyed I always felt when he told me to close his car doors more gently. The way he reminded my friends of Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting.
I laugh, now. Some of the fondest memories I have are of my father being his “way.”
Miss him today.
No more than yesterday,
no less than tomorrow.