the heavy, unavoidable anarchy of the perfect world builds up as she pieces it together in her head. a little chaos. a lot of happiness. a pinch of ideals. a messy concoction. the puff of smoke in the breeze that gives off a whiff of cinnamon.
she steers away from the receipe for disaster by adding a shred of control to the mix. a slice of sanity. and a peel of lemongrass, for nature and knowledge.
she stirs. shakes. mixes it all together. piece by piece, creating an alternate reality that shelters her from the real world when she needs it for the spaces in between.
a little more beauty. a few extra pairs of shoes. less weight gain. less heartache.
and when the mix has everything she sees in the perfect society she sets it on fire. the smoke spreads through the open spaces, turning the sky a murky grey. and she sits amidst it all, eliminating the conflicting components of these perfections until there’s nothing left.
here she realises that this is the perfection; nothinginess in itself is the only possibility.
so when it’s all over, she sits in the middle of a clear but resonantly smokey room, in the remains of her mind’s ideals. without the power to create the perfect world, all she can do is imagine.
and she imagines.
clicking the undo button.
over and over again.
back to day one.