Dress

Dress.

Colours swirl, a divine palette of a million colours, a maelstrom of vibrancy and life. You sit in the centre of the colourstorm, perched atop your artist stool, legs dangling centimetres off the floor. Your eyes seem distant, a war veteran recalling the horrors of war, or a child dreaming of an idyllic utopian existence. Finally, you reach out and twirl strands of colour, first emerald, than topaz, and finally violet, out from the mass of colours, before placing them carefully into little crystal vials. You absently stroke the fabric already in your hands, the cloth sliding smoothly between your fingers, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you recall the rigorous formation process...

The room was darkened, dimly lit by a single orb floating in the sea of black. Cloth rustles faintly as you fiddle with the knobs in front of you, each emblazoned with softly glowing words whispering materials foreign and familiar, ranging from everyday denim and wool to exotic plant fibres and animal skins. In distant glass cubes, the origin of each material can be seen, a brown furred rabbit hopping about, oblivious of its impending doom; the labouring Chinese silkworm, endlessly spinning a cocoon that would never shelter it; or the cotton plant swaying gently in the wind, white buds promising a soft cuddle. You reach a decision, twisting the knobs of silk and cotton to the right, increasing their percentages, while turning a few other knobs slightly, leaving thousands of others untouched. A faint whirring sound is heard as you signal the end of your selection process, deciding on the amount of silk, cotton, and other materials for your cloth. The fabric materializes in front of you, white as snow and as smooth as running water. You pick it up with a contented smile, before striding purposefully into the next room, an atrium filled with a kaleidoscope of colours.

Pulling yourself back into the present, you focus on the task at hand. The penultimate room awaits, where you craft colour and cloth into a tangible creation, a dress meant to flow perfectly. If the selection process seemed whimsical, than the actual crafting process was tedious and tiresome. Minutes stretched to hours, and hours stretched to days, weeks, months. Every detail had to be perfect, every stitch flawless, and every seam unnoticeable even under the scrutiny of the finest microscope. Your eyes strain as you labour in sun and under moon, fingers ceaselessly threading, the vision of a dress resplendent in your mind’s eye. Finally, after an eternity of dreary work, the dress is completed. As you sit back with a sigh of contentment, an androgynous figure stalks in, gives a nearly imperceptible nod of approval, and whisks the dress away.

In front of the exploding flashbulbs of a thousand cameras, the porcelain beauty struts confidently up the catwalk. She is the incarnation of beauty, the avatar of Aphrodite sashaying around in the realm of mortals, your dress adorning her, accentuating her every strength, masking her every flaw. From the side, you watch proudly as your creation is branded into the minds of a million watchers as the epitome of perfection, the ideal dress that would remain an icon for eternity.

End