To a reasonable degree of uncertainty, I am the pinnacle of perfection.

From an evolutionary perspective, from the bacteria to the trees to the fishes to the dinosaurs to the monkeys, when sampled from the whole universe and history of potential candidates, I am (within acceptable error bars) probabilistically the ultimate specimen of life . When viewed over the billions (or is it quadrillions (or is it quadrateintillions?)?) of cell-divisions, I am the best life can offer. Darwin’s champion.

And when I run the odds, amongst the possible matches in the world today, I know the chances that you are the most perfect for me asymptotically approaches zero. The mathematics show me that any person picked at random from any place in the world has a statistically similar prospect of being right for me.

All of this I know to be true – the numbers do not lie.

Yet, as I watch you walk away, the pain the perfect-me feels at the loss of the imperfect-you … it does not compute.

They say the ends justify the means;
but the ends are rarely the end,
and mean means
mean mean ends.

Some crumple beneath a bundle of feathers, blind to anything but the load.

Others strap the mountain effortlessly upon their shoulders and march, strengthened by the view of the palace they build on the plains below.

And a small few carry the others, ignoring all strain, for in their minds the palace is already built. They must merely dance their steps to make the towers shine in an eternity of future sunrises.

Tom was respected because he cared for people, and he was loved because he cared for people.

Dick was respected because he told people the truth, and he was hated because he told people the truth.

Harry was respected because, while he was no Tom, he wasn’t a Dick.