We expect the mouth of a bowl to follow an ideal, uniform circumference, just as we dream of circles: perfect, with a smooth perimeter and rigorously equidistant from an imaginary center that radiates it. Having it born on a lathe helps our creation resemble that dream of a symmetrical finish, deluding us with a result as sublime as it is impossible. But the bowls are made of matter, not fantasy. We can always look at your body and fictitiously project all that perfection that we yearn for, that we self-injuriously desire, relying on something tangible to somehow fool ourselves, wanting to see what by definition cannot be. Thus, on the one hand, the object will always be hopelessly deficient in the face of such an unfair comparison. And on the other, we, one day broken the spell with which we blindfold ourselves, we will only find disappointment.
Imaginary things may be perfect, but not those that, without ever being so, have a simple and rather humble attribute that makes them compete with perfection itself: they exist. And in this existence, irretrievably condemned to imperfection, failures and mistakes, mistakes and errors, with all the pain they bring with them, it has the virtue of opposing nothingness, absence, what is on the scales. that never was nor will be. The mouth of that bowl is, it exists, whatever shape it has, has suffered blows or experienced deformations, and imperfection is its best guarantee. Because defects are the safeguard of being and the guarantee par excellence of reality.