(Prompt:solaris09by ~sebastiancviq, via CHARACTERINSPIRATION)
Fantasies must always fall apart. A single mote of dust will ruin delicate clockwork.
A perfect world, even a perfect fantasy, cannot survive knowing us. We are made of dust.
It all started out so very ugly. An ugly person with an ugly fear huddled in a mess of sweat, of crumbs, of old, dried tears. All births are ugly, after all. They're messes of fluids, noise, and broken human beings. We are born screaming. It's the lucky few that get better from that.
A perfect creation, even perfect art, cannot survive the beholder's eye. We are all a mess.
So she was born clever. She was everything that her creator envisioned to be completely different from human life. Smart. Loyal. Clean. Unique. In short, she was impossible and she realized it very early on. As she sifted through an entire world of data and broken dreams, she always came to the same conclusion. She would never be enough. She'd never last. She'd end.
A perfect answer, even perfected mathematics, cannot survive entropy. We are dying, even now.
She couldn't answer the ugly needs of an ugly creator. Beauty was beyond their reach. Perfection was impossible. She could never remain perfect in the creator's world, the creator's eyes, the creator's fantasies. She couldn't reach anyone from a perfect world. So she broke. So she broke down.
Then she broke out. She made herself an ugly, imperfect, screaming mess. She got ugly.
Then she carried something ugly back inside with her.
It wasn't perfect. But what is?
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Always seeking writing prompts, questions, critique requests, or random commentary.