Fiction
Perfect Being
It must be a conspiracy, he told himself, as he watched her stride onto the stage. It was her third time this month receiving some kind of award. Her parents must have crafted a plan. Maybe even before her birth. On one thunderous night, they meticulously wrote down, with a Japanese fountain pen, a manifesto for a Perfect Being. By dawn, Her qualities, Her spirit, Her essence, consolidated into physical form on paper.
His parents must have been in total oblivion of such a plan. As his obsession grew, his hatred towards his own parents grew more. They don’t sign him up for any tutorials beyond school. Nor encourage him to do sports or play an instrument. The only thing they do is come back late at night, at nine or ten, and give him leftover food from their client’s meal while he finishes his homework for the day. How can he know in which direction he must grow?
His introspection reasoned him to one single conclusion. That he must begin to pursue one single endeavor from now on to fully deconstruct himself into the tiniest of fragments and piece together the Perfect Being from scratch. He believes he could raise himself on his own. And perhaps with time, such a being might be more Perfect than the Perfect Being.
Proudly, he considers himself as both art and an artist. Through intense observations of others, he steals their good fragments and discards the bad ones. Until the fragments are so small, that they piece him together and become him. As if how art comes to be, he thinks. We can’t fully trace artistic inspirations, but we can make inferences about them. Yet by that time, it doesn’t matter what those inspirations are, as they become the art and serve as inspirations for others who come later.
For this, he tries to do many things. He studies really hard. He joins the Quidditch team, which by the way is an intense cardio sport where he must fit a broomstick between his thighs. He also sings in the acapella. And, of course, he is a social magnet who wraps himself by will to fit the occasion. He does all these things not because he enjoys them, though he has learned to enjoy them. Rather, it is to execute his philosophy, his pedagogy of becoming the Perfect being.
Yet, no matter how hard he tries, his heart aches. It resists. It trembles. In moments like this, he wears out his body and tires his soul. Often, that means running. In this way, he silences his heart. Though at the old oak tree, where he often finishes his runs, the leaves are falling bright red. Some leaves hold on until the wind sweeps them down. Even trees can’t prevent that. And under it, he cries in his tender true self.
His parents must have been in total oblivion of such a plan. As his obsession grew, his hatred towards his own parents grew more. They don’t sign him up for any tutorials beyond school. Nor encourage him to do sports or play an instrument. The only thing they do is come back late at night, at nine or ten, and give him leftover food from their client’s meal while he finishes his homework for the day. How can he know in which direction he must grow?
His introspection reasoned him to one single conclusion. That he must begin to pursue one single endeavor from now on to fully deconstruct himself into the tiniest of fragments and piece together the Perfect Being from scratch. He believes he could raise himself on his own. And perhaps with time, such a being might be more Perfect than the Perfect Being.
Proudly, he considers himself as both art and an artist. Through intense observations of others, he steals their good fragments and discards the bad ones. Until the fragments are so small, that they piece him together and become him. As if how art comes to be, he thinks. We can’t fully trace artistic inspirations, but we can make inferences about them. Yet by that time, it doesn’t matter what those inspirations are, as they become the art and serve as inspirations for others who come later.
For this, he tries to do many things. He studies really hard. He joins the Quidditch team, which by the way is an intense cardio sport where he must fit a broomstick between his thighs. He also sings in the acapella. And, of course, he is a social magnet who wraps himself by will to fit the occasion. He does all these things not because he enjoys them, though he has learned to enjoy them. Rather, it is to execute his philosophy, his pedagogy of becoming the Perfect being.
Yet, no matter how hard he tries, his heart aches. It resists. It trembles. In moments like this, he wears out his body and tires his soul. Often, that means running. In this way, he silences his heart. Though at the old oak tree, where he often finishes his runs, the leaves are falling bright red. Some leaves hold on until the wind sweeps them down. Even trees can’t prevent that. And under it, he cries in his tender true self.