Reflections from a perfect mind – The dissension within

I’ve always been under the impression that a perfect mind was, more or less, a paradoxical impossibility. I consider perfection, in itself, to be the pinnacle of altruism. From that perspective, she was the quintessence of all things outward.

I was the kind of person, who you’d expect to find at the center of the masquerade. Or rather, a masquerade is what you’d expect to find me standing on. I’m not deranged or otherwise psychotic to ignominy myself on my own opus without having an end in mind. Yes, there exists an impetus behind all that I do. More often than not, there exists a profusion. A dossier on me would be bound to shed light in that regard. But of course, such a dossier is merely fictitious.

Masquerading my way through life was an abstraction that had me hooked. It was something that whittled into me, cadging off all that I had once cherished. A shadow, an enigma of sorts, to the uninitiated, was what was left behind. No longer conforming to nature, I was a waif, a demon in a garth, left to the clemency of the scree.

That’s when I met her, the paragon of ethics. She never knew what she did right. Only that it was the right thing to do. Fey as I ever was, I took her hand, and for the first time, I transcended. The smouldering pit beneath me loomed dark and veracious. It’ll invariably haunt my dreams to the end of days, but for now, my visions were trounced by the paragon.

A lantern in the thick of fiends. An archetypal embodiment of good. She illuminated delectation. Desolation gave way to mellowness and sentience. This resuscitated the ruptured shadow. Nevermore was I a shadow. A man was forged, a second chance, bestowed.

Unlike most fiction, this is not merely a piece of literature. It’s what the man, upon his inception, put down, with the intent to never forget. Never again, did I wish to be abreast of the devil. I didn’t covet living on concordant lanes anymore. It was the finer, subtle things that had me going, this time around. What finer entity, than exemplariness herself?

The future seems vibrant. I’m a blithe man, seeking euphoric days, and I’d remain so till she endows the hand that once heaved me up from the waters of Lethe. And then….

When perfection beckons, who am I to deny?

The dichotomy is impossible to comprehend, where perfection commences, and logic culminates. I unwind, with the conviction that I’m hers, for the taking.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The Broken Monk is a designer undergoing meditation in Mumbai, India. He is rumoured to be capable of sleeping only once every two nights.


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