But if the word “cat” means anything, it means something which is not this or that cat, but some kind of universal cattiness. This is not born when a particular cat is born, and does not die when it dies. In fact, it has no position in space or time; it is “eternal”…Bertrand Russell, describing Plato’s realm of forms and language
Somewhere, off in another land, the perfect wife exists. She must, we believe this, for how else would we know if the meat is cooked, or the picture frames are straight; how else could we produce accurate measurements. We look over our shoulders, up to her. She does what she does with an alarming lightness. She sweats luminosity.
Somewhere, perhaps down this road, the perfect house exists. We all have to clean our house because of this house. Somewhere it glimmers without dust, somewhere deep in its corridors roses grow from marble. We leave in the morning hoping that while we are in between spaces, we inhabit it.
Somewhere there exists my perfect self. It’s not in my closet: I’ve looked. I have to do a whole checklist of things in order to find her: I have to stop biting my nails, I have to stop thinking about trophies, but once I walk on water and shine like the sun she will come out of me and life will be better.