Perfection

Perfection. The word sounds attractive on the lips. Slightly crisp, slightly pursed, slightly perfect. The fascination with perfection started before memory had the chance to catch up. What was perfect? What did it feel like? Time went on, questions evolved. Does it feel like release? Like boredom? Does it feel perfect? Say a word enough and it loses all meaning. They tell you it just becomes a jumble of letters as if that wasn’t what a word already was. The unatainability might be the beauty of it, if there’s beauty to it at all. It’s more allure, intruige, wonder. For the word to exist, perhaps there was an inspiration. Did a woman pose for the word, like a subject for a painting? Did a poet pick up a pen as an artist picks up his brush, and stare at her until the right word struck him? What did perfection look like, did she have curly hair or smooth skin? Time went on, questions evolved. To be free of all flaw you must have a universal definition of flaw, and it is known that that definition will ebb and flow as time swirls and drains. Therefore there is a undetermined window of time, in which perfection is attainable for a brief moment, and observable to a select few. For the brief moment that you are the definition of perfection, you can understand the fascination. The moment is gone as quickly as it came. The air is slightly crisp, your lips are slightly pursed, and you are only slightly perfect.

#poetry #writing #prose #perfect