perfectionist - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Perfection is overrated. As any biologist will tell you, the next question is, "Perfect for what?" Perfection is subjective - always measured against both personal and culturally changing criteria. We are all born to be who we are, "perfect" for our own lives and purposes. We set out to be the best version of ourselves possible; we love, we forgive, we nurture. A bird can never be a perfect fish, and a fish cannot be a perfect beetle. I can never be a perfect you, and you can never be a perfect me - and you know what? To me, that is perfection.
But that was how it always was in the surroundings her fiancé found comfortable. His house was, in a way, like a China shop. Although lacking the plethora of useless gadgets and decorations, the shop’s wares are always placed with such perfection and delicacy that it would become an entertaining show of falling dominoes if placed incorrectly. In contrast to a China shop, Wilfred disliked – No - loathed having too many furnishings and decorations in one place. Everything needed to be evenly positioned throughout his home, size and color mattering as much as the quantity. One might call such a demanding person a “perfectionist”, but to him, it was nothing more than to be expected.
As the notes failed to please her, an edge of temper crept into her expression. While her teacher nodded genially and tapped his foot she felt mocked. Surely he could hear that it was not right? She stopped abruptly and restarted from the beginning. She had heard this piece played by the symphony orchestra's lead violinist on youtube and if she couldn't match that then she might as well quit now. Again came the error, worse this time. She would have to practice three hours tonight instead of two. Less than perfection would not be tolerated.
The dandelion has a boldness that Orin just didn't care for. It was too tall, too yellow and in the wrong damn place. It was his lawn and what on earth did that flower think it was doing there? He wanted green, he'd planned for green and he was going to get perfect, even, uniform green. In two strides he was at the brash flower and he leaned down faster than a clockwork soldier to pluck it. As the stem snapped, juicy and dripping, he cursed himself. Beneath that soil were roots, now he'd have to fetch his shovel and make even more mess in his otherwise manicured lawn.
Fred wasn't a typical chef in that he was skinny, surprisingly so. Yet in other ways he was perfectly typical. His opinion was the right one, always, no-one else could hold a valid point of view if it wasn't consistent with his own. He prowled the kitchen like a caricature of himself, the eyes popping more everyday and his mouth becoming thinner, tighter. He only ever smiled when he tasted his own food, for everyone else he muttered under his breath “garbage, bland, too salty...”