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Our pure inception of being leaves us as a blank canvas, naked and alone before the ensuing colours of our future experiences, the tarnishing and enhancement that we take as we stray along our paths, adding colour and generating the palette from which we draw our ability to interact with all that is external. As we are party to this process, so that which we create is also, at our hands, set upon its unconscious course of interaction. Through the force of our dreams and aspirations, their fickle nature and ceaseless need to change, combined with the unstoppable force of nature, is all that we ever produce but a fleeting instance of perfection, deemed blemished when beheld as altered. In perfection’s grip what cry can resound other than the cry that all is as it should be and that it is only imperfection to view it any other way.

Mark Jones