CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 746
Describe your perfect day.
I don’t have a perfect day, I have work. True, there are days that seem better than some, days where the murders are simply solved, where I get my housework done early, and have time to listen to the news and complete the crossword in the paper. But really, I like these days just as much as I do than the ones that are harder, where the murders are many, and complex, and I get home late. I may be a form of perfect in the way I execute myself, the way I process crimes, and never slip up, but even then, there is no perfect day for me. There is no perfect, not even for me, because if I was perfect, I’d have parents who lived, a wife who wasn’t raped and murdered. I’d never have known terror or pain, regret or sadness. I’d never have given up emotions I find meaningless. I’d be a perfect man, with no regrets, only happiness and hope. I’d live in a utopia, with other perfect people, and it would rain fucking sunshine. There is no perfect, because nothing can indeed be truly perfect. We can only try to get as close to it as we can possibly get, because, even at that point of near perfection, we still have at least one flaw, one misgiving, regret, one thing, that stops us, or anything around us, from being truly perfect.
The term perfect, in itself, for me, is a vague lie. If nothing is perfect, then why have a word describing something that no one can have? There’s a simple reason for that. The term perfect describes not real perfection, but a state of seeming perfection, and, in reality, real perfection. So, anything that is perfect, is really and truly, only, near perfect. Despite that, even I myself use the term perfect, to describe near perfect things. I had a perfect meal last night, with a pretty good glass of wine, for example. So, really, if you’re really asking what my near perfect day is, and disguising the want to include an extra word by just saying that, then, perhaps, I shall answer with a perfect answer.
One of the most perfect days I have ever had was spent with my aunt. I was about twenty at the time, and had a day totally free from learning, or working, or anything like that. I had everything done that needed to be done, and I was free to do as I please. So, I invited her out, and we had lunch together at a small, homely cafe, then went to see a movie. We shared popcorn and a drink, and then went home together. It was nice, because we talked, like normal people, who had not seen what we had seen, and not experienced what we had experienced.
The other perfect day I have had was spent with my wife, Michelle. Again, free from work, free from commitments already satisfied and completed, we spent a day, mostly at home. We read, watched some TV, and had a lunch that we had made ourselves, in a park nearby. I even pushed her on the children’s swing for a bit, and she laughed so much that she nearly fell off the seat she was almost too big for. We had a light dinner at home, and then went out for a movie in the evening. We came home, and eventually fell asleep in bed, in each other’s arms.
The thing is, nothing is perfect, and, while I still dislike a large amount of people, and a large portion of the way these certain people function, I still recognise that I have indeed been lucky to have at least known love, even if I have lost it, in dramatic ways. I realise that I am not starving, or poor, and, that given my history, I am a reasonably well adjusted person. The thing is, I’ve had some perfect days in my life, but that doesn’t fix everything, barely anything at all, and it never will. It will not make up for my murdered parents, my murdered wife. I will not have the life back that I could have had, once upon a time. My near perfection, my continued existence, are the most perfect things I will ever have in my life. Nothing will ever change that, because, after all, nothing is ever perfect, ever really perfectly, perfect. The world isn’t perfect, after all.