A perfect and hackneyed example of this epistemological concept is a white paper stained with a minuscule blot of black ink. We have this tendency to fix our eyes on things that, we think, are not part of a perfect picture: with a raised eyebrow you look at this blot of imperfection and ask, "what the hell is this tiny, almost-invisible-if-only-I-am-not-a-nitpicking-asshole blot doing here?"
Now you can ask yourself, "what is the purpose of this paper in the first place? Will the patches of stain here and there affect the way I am going to use it? Is there a need for me to dab white paint over an insignificant blotch? Should I throw it away just because it is not 'perfect?'"
Well, I should have known from the start. When a person walks into my life and pull on my heartstrings, he or she will be serving some sort of a purpose. Never mind the spots, as I myself am not perfect anyway.