When I encounter seemingly perfect moments, I feel that it is too good to be true. The joys that I would otherwise experience vicariously if I was to see it happen to someone else is diminished by the realisation that those moments were evoked solely to produce a certain kind of response. When seen in that manipulative light, such a moment loses all real meaning to me and I crave for something less perfect, something imperceptibly familiar and yet entirely original, so that I may attain that lofty state of appreciation, that mix of joyous elation which ensues, and, most importantly, call it my own.

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