I am a selective perfectionist. I'm not crazy about everything but every now and again (often if you hear it from some people) it jumps at me. Notebooks, lists, packing, relationships, and other ironic things that are impossible to perfect.
So I end up with empty notebooks, never-ending scraps of paper with words all over them, piles all on the floor, people I've hurt, trips I've never taken, things I've never tried, dreams I've left unspoken, problems I don't even want to start fixing because I've figured out perfect is not possible for mere man.
So now, for a winter resolution, let us have notebooks full of lists that accidentally repeat themselves. Let us have disorder in our suitcases, on our shelves, and in the drawers. Let us have honesty and love, dreaming and plans. Let us be good friends, old friends, true friends, new friends. Let us have adventures. Let us face the problems.
Let us make many, many, fearless mistakes.