Staring at the computer screen, I feel relaxed, detached, seperate from this world.
But I know this is not true.
The near silent hum of hard drive fans is surrounding me, swaddling me in it's familiar resonance. I just saw you again. Perhaps this is why I'm feeling so at peace with my world. "My" world, not "the" world. In "the" world there are bad things. Children are used and broken and killed by adults who forget what it's like to be young and innocent. People kill for God. Heritage is a deciding factor for hate. "The" world is full of imperfections.
"My" world has little imperfections, save for the ones I allow. "Perfection" is a bizarre term. How can there be a word for something that doesn't exist? Perfection is also relative. To the boy sitting next to me, judging my his web browser, he finds Arabic scripts and pictures with funny captions to be perfectly in balance with his world.
In "my" world, a few things are perfect. Iced raspberry lattes in the summer, hot caramel lattes in the winter. Softly spoken affections, hidden under covers, lost within our own secret world where no one else matters and nothing is imperfect. Fresh baked cookies, a blank canvas, unopened watercolours. A movie that makes you cry for good reasons. An animal that's so soft you can't stop petting it. Hair dye, black nail polish, ten dollar cardigans. A song that makes you forget everything you knew about music.
And you. Always you.
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