โMy most dangerous obsession is known as Perfection. Itโs to blame for why I destroy what I do three days later, why I abandon goals before reaching them, or why I bully myself into believing that anything I come up with is useless or has already been done by someone else. Thatโs why I know all too well that, in the future, my music would never see the light of day if it depended on my own ears; I would take it upon myself to drown it.
โDeep down, Iโm hypocrisy in its highest form: I say itโs good and praise what others do, but Iโm not being entirely sincere, because I view the world through the same ruthless filter I use to judge and condemn myself.
โAnd that need for control bleeds even into time: I have the date of a premature death marked on the calendar. To me, life has a useful limit; Iโm not interested in old age or being here when I can no longer create, move, look, or live the way I want to. I suppose thatโs why I think the only thing that will be perfect is my funeral because I won't be alive to find faults in it.