there must be imperfection

I almost don't want heaven to be perfect. I'm not sure why. perhaps I do not understand perfection, have no concept of what it really is. afterall, all any of us really know is this imperfect place. and maybe I have so throughly set myself upon the task of "looking for the good" in any situation, of having a redemptive attitude about every trial or pain, that I have almost gained a tolerance at least, and an appreciation at most, for imperfection. there is such a sense in which those deep goods in my life and heart, the most saturating joys, are a result of past pains, and perhaps even need the contrast of ungood in order to even be good. so perhaps people embittered by the world welcome situations which are perfect (or rather, seem so) but I, I look them over for their chips and cracks, and finding none, will quickly walk away. maybe even more, maybe I must suffer, at least a little, to feel fully alive. beat me up, and if you don't I will provoke you to it. perfect kindness falls so softly on me I can barely feel it, makes me feel asleep. a little imperfection makes a crack through which the kindess can get in (I do not know if you should believe a single word of this).