We make a lot of mistakes, we do things we probably shouldn’t do, everything is imperfect.
The best times I’ve had are doing things I shouldn’t do, in fact they’re the most perfect. And they’re probably mistakes.
But i’d make them again.
And then i’d regret them again.
And then someone would say something profound when you’re out having a drink and you’d evaluate your life so far in light of that illuminating sentence and you’d have an epiphany and realise that you have nothing going for you and that your life is a sham.
And then biking home the air would rush through your hair, the sky would turn cerise to aubergine… and you wouldn’t care anymore that for weeks you’d woken up in pain, lamenting the chasm you’d opened in your own heart… and there would be nothing to do but admit you’d made a mistake and that you were not perfect, and nothing was, and never would be…