Absurd. We’ll buy brand-new ripped jeans, but expect them to arrive in a pristine box. What the hell is wrong with us? What makes us act so contrary time and time again?
And what about furniture?
Buy a table, and someone has already sanded its edges to mimic decades of use. The paint on it is thin, blotchy, almost transparent. It’s brand new, but old. The showroom is full of old-looking new furniture.
Commission a piece of furniture, and the brief might include aged, weathered, distressed—as if time itself were a finish you could apply with a brush. The timber is bashed with chains. It’s placed on a factory floor so forklifts can run over it. Decades of misuse are applied in days.
Step outside these shops and the expectation flips.
Hair is styled into precision. Teeth are straightened, whitened, and aligned into a controlled symmetry. Bodies are sculpted, tightened, and refined toward an ideal that rejects randomness.
We perfect ourselves.
The contradiction isn’t accidental.
The First Tear
Ripped denim is still the cleanest entry point of this kind of behaviour. It’s obvious. Visible. Deliberate.
Once upon a time, torn clothing meant poverty or hard labour. Now it signals choice. The tear is placed, sized, and balanced. It looks accidental, but it’s engineered to perfection.
Damage becomes design.
And once damage is chosen, it stops being damage. It becomes aesthetic control.
The Expansion of the Idea
The instinct moves outward:
- Furniture is painted, then sanded back to expose layers that never existed
- Timber is beaten with chains or is aged chemically to imitate decades of weather and use
- Leather is scuffed, metals oxidised, and sneakers dirtied before they touch the ground
- Even digital images are degraded—grain added, colour softened, edges broken
We are not waiting for life to leave its mark.
We are pre-installing history.
The Problem With “New”
New objects are flawless. Unmarked. Untouched. Unproven.
And strangely, that perfection creates distance. A pristine surface feels temporary—as if it hasn’t earned its place yet. It hasn’t been tested. It hasn’t been lived with.
Newness is empty of narrative.
So we add one.
We simulate where hands might have worn the edges, where sunlight might have faded the surface, and where constant use might have worn a hole through the material.
We give objects a past they never had—because without it, they are somehow incomplete.
Borrowed Time
Distressing is borrowed time.
Instead of waiting years for wear to develop naturally, we compress it. We replicate friction, use, exposure. We build in the signs of endurance.
The result feels familiar. Settled. Already integrated into life.
It removes the awkwardness of something too new.
The Comfort of Imperfection
Perfect objects are demanding.
They ask to be protected:
- Don’t scratch it
- Don’t stain it
- Don’t use it too freely
They create tension between ownership and preservation.
Distressed objects dissolve that tension. They arrive already imperfect, already marked. They invite use rather than caution.
They say: you can relax here.
Now Look at the Body
And then—abruptly—we reverse the rule. Aged and distressed isn’t preferred.
Hair is cut, coloured, controlled. Even when styled to look messy, it’s orderly chaos. Teeth are corrected, whitened beyond their natural shade, aligned into uniformity. Bodies are trained, shaped, reduced, nipped, tucked, or somehow enhanced toward a narrow definition of “fit,” “toned,” “ideal.”
We don’t sand the edges of ourselves.
We polish them.
Where objects are softened, we are sharpened.
We are always new.
Why the Split Exists
This is where the psychology deepens.
Objects are expected to belong.
People are expected to compete.
A worn table feels safe. It suggests continuity, longevity, quiet use. It doesn’t threaten. It doesn’t compare itself to you.
A perfect body, on the other hand, signals discipline, fertility, control, and status. It enters a social hierarchy. It invites comparison—sometimes admiration, sometimes intimidation.
So we do the opposite things:
- We reduce the dominance of objects by ageing them
- We increase the dominance of ourselves by refining our appearance
It’s not about consistency.
It’s about positioning.
Control Over Time
There’s another layer beneath both behaviours: control.
Time is unpredictable. It erodes, distorts, breaks down.
So we intervene.
With objects, we simulate ageing—but only the good parts. The texture, the softness, the suggestion of history. We stop short of structural decay.
With ourselves, we resist ageing entirely. We straighten, tighten, whiten, lift. We attempt to hold time back.
In both cases, we are editing time’s effects.
We are deciding:
- what to keep
- what to remove
- what to exaggerate
This is not acceptance of time.
It is curation of time.
A Quiet Protest (and a Loud One)
There is resistance in both directions.
Distressed objects push back against mass production. Against identical surfaces and factory perfection. They reintroduce irregularity, even if it is artificial, superficial.
Perfected bodies push back against randomness. Against genetics, ageing, entropy. They assert control where nature would impose variation.
One protests sameness.
The other protests decline.
Both are attempts to negotiate with reality.
The Global Contrast
Step outside this framework, and the tension becomes clearer.
In places where clothing and furniture are scarce, wear is not aesthetic—it’s unavoidable. Ageing is not simulated—it’s endured.
There is no desire to add damage.
There is, instead, a desire to escape it.
Likewise, bodily perfection is not always a priority where survival, labour, and access dominate daily life.
This reveals something uncomfortable.
Our ability to:
- distress objects
- perfect ourselves
is rooted in excess.
We can choose imperfection because we are not trapped by it.
We can pursue perfection because we have the resources to attempt it.
Nostalgia vs Aspiration
There’s a subtle emotional split here.
Distressed objects lean toward nostalgia.
They suggest:
- slower time
- continuity
- endurance
Perfected bodies lean toward aspiration.
They suggest:
- progress
- control
- upward movement
One looks backward for comfort.
The other looks forward to validation.
And we hold both at once.
The Edge of Authenticity
Here’s where it fractures.
When distressing becomes too obvious, it feels fake.
When bodily perfection becomes too precise, it feels artificial.
We instinctively reject both extremes.
We don’t want perfect perfection.
We don’t want an obvious imperfection.
We want something in between:
believable reality.
A worn edge that feels accidental.
A body that looks natural—even if it isn’t.
We are constantly calibrating that line.
The Deeper Instinct
Underneath all of this is a simple preference.
We are drawn to:
- signs of life
- signs of time
- signs of endurance
But only when they are controlled.
Too much wear becomes decay.
Too much perfection becomes inhuman.
So we construct a narrow band where both feel acceptable.
Where things look lived—but not broken.
Where people look refined—but not artificial.
That band is fragile.
And we spend an extraordinary amount of effort maintaining it.
Where It Turns
Because once we train ourselves to read surfaces this way, the instinct doesn’t stay with objects.
It transfers.
We begin to read people the same way:
- trusting visible flaws
- questioning polished appearances
- searching for signs of “realness”
But what happens when those signals are engineered?
When the worn edge is deliberate?
When the imperfection is placed?
When the “natural” look is constructed?
We assume authenticity.
Because it looks right.
SEETHINGS
This is where SEETHINGS finds its ground.
Not in the obvious. Not in the exaggerated. But in the believable surface.
The familiar neighbour. The steady presence. The person who appears to carry just enough wear to feel real.
Not perfect. Not damaged.
Just… convincing.
Because if we’ve trained ourselves to distrust perfection—and to trust the appearance of imperfection—then the most effective disguise isn’t flawlessness.
It’s crafted imperfection.
The kind that mirrors life closely enough to pass.
The kind that doesn’t stand out.
The kind that belongs.
Final Thought
We don’t just destroy crispness.
We redistribute it.
We take it from objects—softening them, ageing them, giving them history.
And we concentrate it in ourselves—sharpening edges, refining surfaces, chasing control.
All in pursuit of the same thing:
Something that feels real.
Even if we have to build it ourselves.
–Michael (Dark fiction. Author of SEETHINGS (the first book), free for a limited time)
SEETHINGS promises a gripping psychological thriller that blends murder, passion, and secrets of a sexless marriage. Forman’s vivid prose draws readers into a world where lightning illuminates the skies and hidden truths. As the storm clouds gather, Mitchell’s journey promises to unravel more than just the mystery of the murders.
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