Her right nipple was sensibly different from her left one.

That imperfection had found a niche in my subconscious during my sleep last night. Like a sweet needle finding ways to carve its way into my nervous system and deep inside my libido. Her nipple bought a ticket into a wild ride into my psyche and together -her nipple and I- visited the different incarnations of my own self into the universe of my absurdities. Then, right when I thought the trip was over my point of view reversed to the one of my companion.

How different would the world look like from the perspective of her right breast.

Since it was a deliciously but deformed nevertheless piece of anatomy maybe the way of looking at the world would also be altered. Her eyes would mirror her nipples then and one of them would have a disproportionate large iris, through which life would be perceived in a completely different manner than from the other.

And thus, this current of thought born from the femininity of a single anatomical curve found its way to flow through the drains of my mind and dripped all the way through the cracks in my dreams and painted it all in imperfection.

I started seeing everything asymmetrical, the doubles looking unique in their own way. Duplicity had disappeared from my world and hence, people had one side completely bigger than the other: eyes, hands, feet, ears…they were beautifully dysmorphic on one of the parts of the pair.

Wonderfully frightening, right?

I woke up with the certain idea that there were not two identical things in life, but moreover that they had decided to grow separately one from the other while I was asleep. In the space of the seven hours that I had spent fighting with the light between the two different pillows, the world had abandoned itself to my thought and drifted dramatically away from its chimera of symmetry.

No symmetry meant no copying, no use of predetermined patterns. Each form grew anarchically from their predecessor. Each creature was meant to be all that the parents hadn´t been. Every word would look for its own new meaning.

Every life would try to be free from their roots, their language and their past.

I dreamt that we were free in imperfection