Perfection

It all started with...

I was walking with my dad through a meadow. The rest of my family was walking ahead of us. I was sitting on my dad's shoulders, like when I was little. A beautiful, shimmering, rainbow-coloured bird flew past. It hovered where I was. I petted it, and it gave me one of it's feathers. I remember holding the feather and watching it shine. It was perfect.

Then I was walking with my mom, and I went behind a tree. There was a plant, and it was the prettiest plant I had ever seen. My mom told me that it was a rare plant, and that I should take one leaf. I did. It smelled wonderful. It was perfect.

And then at the base of the tree lots of crystals were growing. Some were like diamonds, shining and crystal-clear. Some were golden-brown, like amber. I picked some of both. They were perfect.

And then, I was at the mouth of a tunnel. It was sandy, I remember. I was sitting down, but suddenly a racecar went by. It made sand blow over all of my precious things: the feather, the plant leaf, the crystals. I then realised that I was dreaming. I rumaged through the sand, but I couldn't make myself find them. My perfect things.

I imagined a blue box, to put them in. There it was. But I still couldn't find my perfect things. But that's when I woke up. I started crying. Because, in dreams, things can be perfect. But in real life, perfection isn't real. Life, it isn't so kind as to harbour any realness in dreams, those that are but vanishing things. Only in the confines of our head are we able to really imagine, to dream that there is such thing as perfection.

The End

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