I could not have blundered so grandly. It is the miscue that set order to chaos. It is my perfect mistake. The one that i wish never occurred, but am always pleased of its aftermath. A sort of love-hate that sprouts itself when experience is willing itself into existence. The twinge of beautiful knowledge. It hurts so good.
What makes a mistake less then perfect? Isn't it through our errors that we become enlighten? If we were to never fall, how would we pick ourselves back up? Or even someone else. How would we truly savor victory, if we had never known the taste of failure.
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