No, I don’t mean he’s perfect in the sense that he’s perfect for me.
I mean he’s ideal. He’s perhaps Perfect; yes, Perfect with a capital P. He’s the form that Plato sang about in ancient Greece. And I don’t mean this in a subjective I’m-in-love-with-him-therefore-he-is-Perfect way either. I don’t feel that he is perfect; I observe. But even then, I have no good reason for attributing his being perfect to the ideal form of Perfect; to my knowledge, or lack thereof, I could be beguiling myself. Perhaps this all is just the mere appearance of truth Truth. It may still just be subjective, a construct of my mind.
Let me elaborate. I want to attempt to describe the way in which I perceive his essence as constitutive of Perfectness. Note the distinction: Perfectness, not Perfection. He is not Perfection. He possesses a perfectness that makes me feel ashamed of…
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