Woes of Sympathy

I go about the business of my life, shunned by those who hold their head high. Yes, the Proud. They don’t need me. Despite their dwindling numbers, they are still a reproach to Society. I’ve come a long way trying to help them find solace.

Solace, indeed.

Let me tell you how I tried. I touched Poverty, trying to obliterate her, she, who shivered in my presence while she cast her baleful eye on me. I held her close, too close for comfort, for long years, when the sun hid behind layers of frozen clouds. It was then that I became synonymous with the Poverty of the Spirit, who stalks among the living, touching those who cannot see beyond the confines of their cloistered lives.

I have been striving to be visible.

My presence struggles to be felt.

Have you ever been the victim of your circumstances? At least, perceived as one? That will be the shield that you need, for behind that, you can see me for what I am. I preen. I primp. And my twisted heart gladdens at the sight of your abject misery. I get a chance to show how noble I am, at your expense. I make people feel oh, so glad at their exalted circumstances. I make them feel gratified, important and eventually immensely magnanimous, at being able to help. I am condescending in all my concern, feigned or otherwise.

The truly Proud see me for what I am and walk away. They never look back preferring to shiver in their little hovels, living on air and water till their very eyes shine with an ethereal gleam only Death can recognize.

Their hunger becomes a light that consumes their being.

Have you ever been slapped hard in the face? Have you felt the shock reverberating along your jaw, angry tears, obliterating your vision. This is their expression when I approach them. I ignore that. I try to comfort with honeyed words that sound hollow, even to my ears, while I say all the right things.

They look at me and away, dismissing me in one look that deems me insignificant.

I try doggedly. I am spurned like the cur that I am.

I walk away in pretended disdain, angry, for I did extend a helping hand. I did try to uplift the downtrodden. I did try to be good. I think to myself, I’ve been lucky, truly blessed, oh please won’t you allow me to help you? Why don’t you accept my help?

Their eyes declare- Help? Never could stand the stuff. Distasteful. We cringe at your kind looks cast our way. Never could tolerate kindness. Especially when all we have left is our pride.

All I did was try to help.

Don’t, for all that we have left, is our pride.

Sympathy

The A-J Handbook of an Alienist.

A is for Alienist. Here comes the Alienist. Watch her as she dusts her framed diploma and gathers her tales of woe for the day. She walks the murky path of troubled souls and collects a few trophies along the way. Ah, this will add a glitter to the halo she has installed around her forehead, so she can be seen from outer space, even. A is for Abuse, that the Alienist deals with and reinforces.

The thing about abuse is that you get used to it. You accept it as part of your life. It becomes an inherent part of your soul. You set up yourself for it. You are conditioned by it. Active abuse shows itself on you, your bearing, your words and thoughts. You are a victim. You look like a victim and soon behave like one.

B is for broken. The Alienist thrives on the broken. She hunts them down. She’s developed special skills in identifying them. The broken inhabit the hidden nooks and corners when they don’t want to be seen and under extra hyperactive behaviour, when they feel the eyes of others devour them. Smiles moulded from plastic freeze on their faces and their eyes are sunk into hollow depths of despair. A murderous glint appears when you spy the espying Alienist. You are one among the truly broken.

C is for Coventry. Have you heard of this quaint old English term- Being sent to Coventry? A group of popular, active, privileged people, who have their bearings about them, vote to send an unsuitable member of their company to Coventry, for being different, having problems, and being the proverbial wet blanket. So nobody speaks to you, for you are in Coventry, you are shunned and ostracized. The Alienist thrives on Coventry. Coventry provides her with a major chunk of bread and butter she needs to put on the table. Many decades of research and psychological studies later, the Alienist states that this practice is cruel and detrimental to the individual, but does nothing about it in real life.

D is for desperation that sets in when you realize nobody is listening. Not even the Alienist, who is paid to do so. You muster the courage to speak to the officious Alienist who is as prejudiced as your peers and tries to convince you that what you are feeling is wrong. Any pedestrian healer of souls would know that the first step to healing is acceptance, both by the healer and the broken. But no, the Alienist is infallible in her opinion. Her veil of prejudice already exists, firmly attached in place.

E is for the eagerness with which the Alienist, in the avatar of the healer, is eager to point out that the world is nice and there are nice people out there. E is also for the eagerness you show in escaping to another zone unsullied by the presence of the formidable Alienist. E is also symbolic of the stupid grin you plaster on your face in case you get caught.

F is for the final futility of seeking help. The broken are now shattered to smithereens and come to the conclusion, that there is no point in speaking up. There really isn’t. Nobody wants to look at your point of view. The Alienist who has the world in the palm of her hands is quick to point out the other perspectives which have obviously escaped you. Now you’d rather amuse yourself banging your head against the wall and see the patterns that emerge.

G is for Good Lord. For God’s sake! There are many pleas for help, some strident, some barely audible, some masked under the veil of silence, smiles and even dignity. Dear Alienist, get off your high horse and lend an ear. You might be the reason for someone to want to continue to live. Don’t be the one to push someone off the narrow ledge they are barely walking on. It’s murder. Believe me it isn’t very much different.

H is for the delirious happiness dispensed by the Alienist. After a few sessions with her, things are better now, at least the pretence continues. For you realize things were better before she curled her tentacles around you and now you can’t extricate yourself anymore. You know you were happy when you were depressed and now you are desperate to get away, who cares about happiness? You could have created a happy world in your mind, instead of being driven up the wall!

I is for you, yes, the hidden, ignored, much-maligned I in you. If you are different, admit it to the Alienist, at least you stand a chance of being a specimen under someone else’s microscope, at least someone unlike her is going to spend time on you, serves you right, plucking your wings away from your body, removing your limbs systematically, cutting you open and poking into your entrails before formally validating your thoughts by giving them a collective noun and a prescription that makes you feel relieved and hopeful as you down your meds, day in and day out. At least you’re not judged any more for being the way you are.

J is for Jolly good show and it’s Just another day in the illustrious life and career of the Alienist. She pins you to the rest of her collection and her saga continues…another day another time, another place… Well, I’m sure you’ve had enough of her. Me too. Not going to Continue.

Pettifoggers Anonymous

Let’s face it. We are a critical lot.

I happened to appreciate an acquaintance in the presence of a few well-wishers. After a few minutes, in the lull of the conversation a well-meaning do-gooder sidled up to me and tried to set the record straight.

Actually, he…

The conversation grew intensely uncomfortable. I cast a pleading look at a friend who was oblivious to my hints.

But, we see, he should’ve…

Err, I need a refill.

And he could’ve…

Oh look, there’s…

And I would’ve…

I gave up. I zoned out and left for fresh air on the overcrowded balcony.

As I was saying, we are a critical lot. We don’t keep our opinions to ourselves. We’d be considered fools if we didn’t take the subtle and not so subtle hints. Don’t know what I mean? Just try ignoring the ‘truth’ slammed your way. See what I mean?

So, let’s wince, duck and try to change the subject because we’ve been brought up the right way, and a sudden unsheathing of claws always unnerved us. We have too much integrity to agree, leave alone add to the damned conversation. Let’s hem and haw and try to change the subject. It never works, till we get a brainwave and walk away to answer that urgent call, of the telephone or nature, depending on the proximity.

We truly are a critical lot. Ever ready to judge, condemn and dispense justice as if it were used tissues cast into the bin.

In no uncertain terms I state that I would love to be mistaken. Please prove me wrong. In the meantime I’m avoiding all my well-wishers. And slipping into a zen-like state. I suggest you do so too.

It’s Critical.

The Waters of Lethe

systole/diastole

diabolic rhythm

an unwilling heart

clogged roads

life

courses

most reluctantly

systole/diastole

brash waves drive from behind

inevitable and unavoidable

foxtrot on the treadmill

tango with wires

pounding waves

pulsed into spray

on ticker

systole/diastole

a coded tempo decrees

control

systole/diastole

a heart much maligned

cannot be repaired

systole/ diastole

measures

walls of my making

rendered inflexible

systole/ diastole

rigidity sets in

i pace

rigor mortis sets in

i forget to breathe

in my fury

systole/ diastole

evergreen memories

don’t go away

condition the core

now brittle and callous

systole/diastole

regulate

thin the blood

slow the heart

adjust the rhythm

systole/diastole

take this memory

fertile

weeds of thoughts

plunder

systole/diastole

every onslaught/ failed attempt/ wretched expectation/ wrenching betrayal/ gaping wound/ gnash and gash/ cutting word/ tightening of the heart/ suppressed retort/ repressed emotion

barbed wires of a resilient memory

systole/ diastole

a pattern of my remembrance

a curse that i live with

what wouldn’t i give

to forget

Memorize

Divine charms

On a hillock I reside, removed from all inhabitation.

Steps hewn into granite lead you to me.

Your breath is tested, your feet calloused, as you strive to reach me.

I wait patiently, watching over you, from the innermost recesses of my sanctum sanctorum.

My vision pierces clear even through layers of fragrant sandalwood paste, lovingly smeared to appease me.

Appeased am I, indeed, for my love for you transcends everything, even my fury.

My claws receded and roar subsided, a long while ago.

I chose to be tame, putty in your hands.

Love overpowering is what you crave.

I am enamoured by your display of deep devotion.

Come to me.

The path is steep.

The road is lonely.

Fear not.

I shall watch over your every step.

For I am truly enamoured.

Truly blessed.

For you belong to me.

Enamored

Vinylanimation

The remnant of a bygone era, I am obsolete. Turned to stone. My songs silenced forever.

I was. A pliant lump shaped into flat discs turning concentric at the sameness of it all, the routine circles, ranging from the larger to the smaller, the potency of existence versus the necessity to live turned outward, searching for meaning.

I became. An expert at holding still, while the circles formed concentric with every turn. I strained and my life came full circle every time, the needle however slipped into another groove.

I watched. Fascinated how the narrow confines of my tiny grooves keep me in, my full throated angst held back, and the melodies, sung and unsung, an inconsequential part of something greater.

I existed. In carved grooves that I created, the needle my muse, as it moved from groove to groove, I played.

I stopped. A scratch and two jarred just a bit and then I stopped. Silence. I preferred silence to broken songs. The unfamiliar, even irregular rhythm of my heartbeat was preferable to throats scratched dry. The same fragmented song over and over again.

Meanwhile static crackles. My song still inhabits those grooves. How do I unravel my song? How do I emerge from those spaces I inhabit?

I wait. For one groove to progress to another.

I am. Here, trapped in vinyl.

I ask. For my turntable, so let’s take a spin if you can.

via Daily Prompt: Inhabit
Inhabit

A Home Truth

​I am in my special place, the couch actually, and close my eyes. 

The lights are dimmed and I slip into a trance.

I am done for this minute, hour, day, week, month, year and even lifetime, maybe, and await further instructions from deep within to attain Samadhi state. A state of Nirvana. Having done all I can, having conquered all impulses, except maybe shopping, I am content to wait for eternal bliss to come my way. After some tea perhaps, or some mind-numbing television even.

At least silence works, for the moment.

The telephone. 

Where’s your mobile? 

I don’t know. 

Voices, trying to get into my head. Actually one voice. A voice that asks questions, answers them and makes observations and gives obvious conclusions, sounding pleased, waiting for accolades at such display of life and enthusiasm.

On steroids? 

Nope. A blithe spirit. A friend. A well-meaning, genuinely caring friend.

A devoted soul, brimming with concern enters the zone with all energy, brimming with cheerfulness that grates on my frayed nerves.

What are you doing?

What is this? Why? How? Where? 

…

And why are you so quiet? What did I say now? What did I do? Shouldn’t I have called? Shouldn’t you have answered first?

Hmm. Yes. No. Really. For the next ten minutes.

 I reel from the onslaught and ignore it while I can and then – Enough!

As expected, easy tears, the waterworks. The works! The efforts to pile guilt on me. 

GUILT.

I refuse to feel any, for I know I am in MY space, it’s MY time and MY life.

Don’t snap at me! How dare you treat me this way? After all  that I have invested into this relationship!

Oh Hell! That’s not how I remember it. Anyway I don’t think so.

You have not got any returns from this relationship?

 Only  incurred losses?

I’m not going down that road. I know she is itching for an argument now. I hold the receiver a little away from my ear and pace the room, now lit up in harsh lights, the blood rushing to my head.

From my window, I now look at the dog that won’t let go of a bone, worrying it till it cracks into splinters and then looks surprised as to why its mouth is bleeding. It yelps in pain. Some children playing on the street rush to call for help.

So I say- Could you please not think aloud? Resolve the way you feel. It’s not my problem.I am the problem here. So you need to let go. Deal with it. I want to be alone. I want silence. I don’t want to talk about anybody. To anybody. For anybody. Sometimes I just could go through the motions and not disturb the very air around me.

Nothing works out. The assault continues.

So I say, in all exasperation-Would it make things easy if I quit? OK. I quit. Even if it makes me more miserable than I am. Move away? Fine.  Even die? Yay! Why not! 

I will go. Why should you? Anyway, I do so much for you. I am such a good friend. You never think about me. In fact I watch out for you…

Yes, I’m so tired of all this now. Listen! You are the good one here. Miss Congenialty.You are the best. Could you now go spread some sunshine in other lives? Please? And if you have a real problem, you know where to find me. You have millions of friends, a wonderful family even. What can you want from a loser like me? Do you want to finish the job life started? Annihilate me?

Does nothing matter to you?

No.

Don’t people matter? 

No.

Who behaves like this?

I do.

Oh, the times you take ‘U Turns’ and behave so unpredictably. I never know where I am with you!

Yes. The U Turn. It’s called survival.

Don’t be sarcastic! AHHHH! Nothing matters to you!

Well, you see, so much matters. Peace, silence, and solitude matter. I feel stifled with all this attention. You’ve helped me, I am grateful to you. You are a wonderful friend. I get it. I’m eternally grateful. But I never asked you for help. Never. You did it out of the kindness of your heart. Don’t kill me with so much kindness. Find yourself another project to work on, another relationship to invest in. This here is done. You are flogging a dead horse. I have nothing to give. I am Nothing. Let me slip into Nothingness. No, I don’t need anybody to rescue me. I just want out. OUT! It cannot get more specific than that really!

But then, she chooses to think I’m in a bad mood. I know she thinks I am fraught with stress and other problems and I need tender loving care. Lol! Despite the blood pressure shooting up to alarming levels, I cannot suppress a smile. I am glad she cannot see me smile for she’d be really mad!

After what seems an eternity it comes.

I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean anything bad. 

I know. I didn’t mean anything bad. 

Sob! Then why do you do this?

Hell, woman, haven’t you any sense of space? Any sense of self?

 I am a bad person. A horrible friend. Face it. I can’t be what you want me to be. I will be quiet more times than not. I will look into far away spaces and sit still. I will walk away inexplicably. I will be myself. I will take U turns. I refuse to pretend to be happy and jolly when I am a shattered being trying to make pieces of my self whole again.

And it is all my fault. Please accept this. And, I won’t change. I cannot. 

You don’t mean it!

But, I mean it all.

Every single word.

Specific

Fleedom

Flee – The Daily PromptI have dug my own grave and prepare to lie in it.

With these hands. These grimy hands with dirt embedded in the nails. The soil made soft and pliant with my sweat and maybe some tears as well.

The walls are lined with the memories of my own making. Sometimes I cringe when I face them, but I deserve to face my mistakes. Why should I be spared when I am low in the ground, six feet under? This life I lead, spells no escape. Why should death afford me this luxury?

No, I cannot run away. There is nothing I can run away from, nobody I can run to…

But I don’t need anybody, do I? A strong woman like me…

I bare my teeth in derision. You seem to forget, there is no running away from myself, now, is there? The abyss I’ve sunk to. The scraps of affection I’ve waited for. The smiles that I’ve bought. The comfort I had sought all come rushing in when the filters are dismantled, and my guard is down. And then I loathe myself all over again. Forgive myself? Oh, no. I don’t deserve it.

Who would give me a second chance? And if I were given one, would I even take it? I despise the world. I despise all it represents. I despise how it changes people. I have seen enough.

I sit out in the open bazaar of this world, with my veil outspread on the pavement, trying to catch a stray coin that comes my way, trying to look as if I were not there. I look at the others there and see the same vacant look in their eyes. You never get used to begging, do you? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been generous too, when I could. Now, as if that would shield me from the barbs that random passersby shoot at me. Speak all you can, there’s space on the pavement for you soon.

Cursed, I am the face of humanity, the underbelly nobody notices. Once in a while we crawl out of our little hovels and sun ourselves sharing your light and you wince, looking away. Hold on. It’s just a matter of time.

My tattered veil is still outstretched on the pavement and is now decorated with the footprints of people who have walked my way. Coins? Some are still there. Some are gathered up furtively by the enterprising ones in the passing crowd, who look at my unseeing eyes and decide I’m not really there. And maybe I’m not really there. Maybe I fled a long time ago. Maybe my body and soul are no longer united for my soul has fled its mortal prison and escaped to God knows where.

My body awaits. Every single day it carves a little dent into the living earth and the earth obliges by becoming forgiving.

The minute I was born, I knew it was one step closer to death. Every dying day brings me nearer to my living death.

No, I’m not saying this because something happened. Something always happens and it almost always amounts to nothing.

Who belongs to whom here? What is mine? What is yours? Who are we? I have no answers to these questions.

Is death the real escape? Or do we close our eyes in death to wake up to another hell? I have no answers yet, but well, all I can do is watch and wait.

People like me, sometimes we watch. Sometimes we don’t. But we’re always waiting. For a handful of rice. For a fistful of coins. For day to follow day. For night to follow day. For darkness to follow darkness.

And Death follows us faithfully. Life is a betrayer, treacherous and false. Death is real and eternal.

Love, hope, family, and self are beautiful illusions. They light up your darkness with the occasional glimmer. Like blinking fireflies, this light is elusive and does not last.

Death is the only hope you can count on. It never fails to visit. Flee if you can, and while you can. But regardless, Death always catches up.

I am prepared. I have dug my grave and now I lie in it.

Flee

Archaeopteryx

This is not my life. This is not me. This is the thought that pounds at my mind, never allowing me to be content with my lot in life.
This is not my life. This is not me. This is the refrain that courses through my blood, ringing in my ears, never allowing me to rest.

This is not my life. This is not me. For I am the missing link. I never knew that at first, but destiny led me to believe that only I am the connect between all that I am and all that I can be.

This is not my life. This is not me. Slithering among my fellows, revelling in the sun, I waited, this buzz in my head preventing me from basking in peace. 

No, this was not the life for me.

I wasn’t cold blooded, you know.

I wasn’t cold at all.

In me, there beat a heart, there pulsed a thought- This is not my life. This is not me. This is not my life. This is not me. This is not my life. This is not me. This is not my life. This is not me. This is not my life. This is not me.

This is not my life. This is not me.

This is not my life. 

This is not me.

I waited. I watched. Change embraced me, slowly at first and then with indecent haste. They stared at me with distaste. How dare I?

I realized once you accept the inevitable, things fall into place.

My scales soon shed, of their own accord.

My beating heart made the connect, completing the leap it had begun a million years ago. I felt different. But it felt so right. Oh, so right!

But the others. They watched aghast as I changed from within. Soon the difference was apparent. There was a certain degree of alarm and a whole lot of conjecture.

At first I actually care to make them understand. It wasn’t their fault, you see. It was all me.

I said to anybody who would listen-

This is not my life. This is not me.

They blinked in all their incomprehension.

My beating heart sang this refrain. Over and over again. This is not my life. This is not me.
My heart changed as well. I now had four chambers. My love for life pumped through every chamber- I didn’t know when my body turned warm. So much joy! So much peace! I was doing what I wanted to do! I was being me! Oh the possibilities that awaited me!

They looked at me balefully and coldly.

How dare I even presume?

Hiding in the cracks during the day, they slithered onto the warm rocks at nightfall, cold and unfeeling except for the one common thing they had for me. Malevolent hatred.

Grouped together ominously for comfort, they twined and intertwined and it became less obvious where one ended and the other began. They looked my way a vengeful collective of dark, brooding menace.

All I knew was solitude.

Solitude was bliss. Ignorance more so.

Vital life coursed through my veins. I flexed my shoulders and hopped about in glee! A kind one shushed me and motioned at me with a blink but I paid no heed. I tested my arms, wiggled my digits and spread the membranes that defined me. I flapped. Blood surged through me.

I took flight.

A serpent reared its head and hissed- You freak! You moron! What do you think you are doing?

I looked down from my primordial perch and shrugged.

I didn’t have an answer to that. I didn’t have an answer to anything, really. You see, sometimes there are no answers. You just are. Things are. And that is all there really is.

All through my flight, my heart simply told me -This is not my life. This is not me.

I repeated these words to the now coiling serpent who slumbered on the still warm rock.

This is not my life. This is not me.

They fell on deaf ears.

I spread my wings. I left my perch behind. Far behind.

I now could view my primitive life from a different angle. Oh, the pettiness of it all. The struggle for existence. The futility of it all. I flew. Every flight I undertook changed me ever so slightly. I became this fascinating creature, at least I thought I was and began something I knew was unstoppable. I didn’t understand it myself, but all I knew I had to try. Well, you see it was my job to try. If I hadn’t tried, you wouldn’t have had these beautiful creatures who dot the skies, who wake you up with their song, need I really say more?

Who am I?

Do you need names, labels, categories?

You see I don’t really fit in.

I never belonged. I am different. And the whole world knows me. Because I dared. To be unique.

For I am Archaeopteryx.

I am the missing link.

I dared to dream. I dared to try. Alone. Never let them hold me back.

Where am I now?

Frankly, I don’t know. 

And really, I don’t care.

I lived my life. I mean, I really did. 

I was real.

Now, I am a fossil.

I am reduced to a theory.

I exist in your dust laden tomes. 

And maybe even in your vestigial imagination.

I am the bridge that forged itself between the cold and the warm

Between the unfeeling and the aspirers.

I am the pioneer of flight.

It all began when I said to myself-This is not my life. This is not me.

So much joy! So much peace! Oh the possibilities that awaited me!

Missing

Stupid

Not all lives are patterned the same.

Not every breath grudged.

Not every effort rejected.

Not every attempt thwarted.

Stupid girl chanted this mantra every day of her life. Her special little prayer. Her little affirmation of faith. In anticipation of the deluge of change, she knew awaited her.

Stupid girl stood by the door, watching the others at play. They called her.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Hide and Seek. Stupid girl hid with the others. Stupid girl was caught first. Bad at hiding, Stupid girl had no choice but to seek.

Easier said than done.

Stupid girl gave up after a few attempts and returned home sniveling.

Mother was too busy worrying about the evening meal to bother.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Stupid girl wiped the tears off her grimy cheeks and settled down in a corner with her books. The film on her burning eyes made the letters all blurred and they swam, enticing her to dream. Dream? Stupid girl couldn’t for long. Mother came by, saw her with a faraway look in her eyes and hit her on the head. Feeling very stupid again and most insignificant, Stupid girl looked at her lesson. It didn’t make sense to her at all.

Father was at it again. This time Stupid girl knew dinner would be late. An hour later, Stupid girl crept into the kitchen for dinner. The vessels were scattered on the floor and Mother was sitting there, staring at nothing.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Stupid girl looked at her and away.

Stupid girl gave up on Mother. Food. Where was food,now? Stupid girl foraged for food. Father had thrown the rotis into the sink. The vegetables lay in the slop that had been a curry earlier that evening. Stupid girl could smell the tobacco rolled in betel leaves. See the red stains on the wall.

Telltale signs.

Stupid girl picked up the soggy rotis and ate one. Stupid girl gagged. Threw up. Got slapped by Mother. Father snarled again. A feral beast.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Stupid girl felt really stupid this time.

Being hit always made her feel like an idiot. Her brain would freeze for so long, Stupid girl couldn’t think anymore. Stupid girl couldn’t say a word either.  Stupid girl felt like an imbecile.

Stupid girl blinked at her reflection in the mirror and now suddenly thought of the beggar who sat in front of the temple. The stupid grin on his face. Stupid girl was like him. How grateful he looked when someone dropped a coin into his bowl! Stupid girl felt the same too. For Stupid girl was a beggar sitting on the fringes of her home, her school, starved for affection and maybe even attention.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

The only difference was, nobody noticed her.

No alms came her way. No words, no smiles, it was as though Stupid girl wasn’t even there.

Stupid girl looked at the group of girls chattering incessantly. The only time Stupid girl wished they would speak to her was the last. It was a slap in her stupid face.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

She felt their scorn bore into her soul.

She felt dumb again. Stupid really.

Stupid girl watched in incomprehension, as they turned away and laughed a little louder, their backs an impenetrable fortress.

Why did they then seek her when they were alone and reject her when together? She had listened eagerly when each one told her things. Had run little errands for them, willingly. Had helped each one enthusiastically almost every other day.

Why did they now behave this way?

Stupid girl felt like a moron again.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Story of her life.

Stupid girl.

Stupid girl grew up, despite life.

Stupid girl lived, despite dying a thousand deaths inside. You gotta hand it to her. A thousand at least.

Stupid girl tried to believe, despite all her faith being crushed.

Stupid girl dared to love, hoping it would make her feel whole.

Love split her soul to pieces mangled beyond recognition.

Stupid roadkill.

Stupid girl thought…What? She still thought?

Stupid girl could have a family.

Really? Stupid couldn’t be that stupid now, could she?

Well she was. Stupid.

Father died.

Mother cried.

Stupid girl lied? Sighed? Tied? Flied? Gosh what would her teacher say!

Fried? Plied? Mied? Aied? Jied? Kied? Wied? Nied? Ried? Uied? Hied? Xied? Zied? Ried? Oh no! Said that already!

Vied? Aha! That made sense! No, that was too stupid a rhyme. Even Stupid girl knew that.

Maybe she should have just died? Now that made a lot of sense. Even to Stupid.

Stupid girl now made another attempt.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Stupid is as stupid does.

Stupid thought she could be happy. Stupid thought she could start afresh.

Stupid didn’t reckon that grownups were overgrown versions of the little bullies they had been.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

So Stupid thought she could make a difference.

So she thought.

Stupid! Oh, so stupid!

Stupid girl chanted her prayer. Yes, you are right. A stupid prayer.

Shouldn’t her prayer have been a little different? If only she knew better.

Not all lives are patterned the same, but mine is frozen forever.

No breath grudged, but mine.

No effort rejected, but mine.

No attempt thwarted, but mine.

Every single time.

Every single time.

So now Stupid girl lives her life and is as invisible to people as beggars are. No, the futility of it all- she cannot be invisible, now can she?

More of an eyesore really!

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Look how gazes are hastily averted, things are held with a tighter grasp, conversation becomes animated. Oh, for Heaven’s sake let there be no gap, we simply cannot allow Stupid girl to loom large and clumsy, awkward, on our horizon!

For everybody who is stupid enough to look at her, I won’t say any more, see for yourself…

Just notice them wince and cringe. They visibly shrink away from her as she glides about her day, a stupid freak, with a stupid smile on her face, a stupid word on her lips as she waits for someone to get her.

Finally get her.

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

After all, she does believe in the power of her mantra.

Not all lives are patterned the same.

Not every breath grudged.

Not every effort rejected.

Not every attempt thwarted.

Stupid girl!

Who didn’t want attention? A wise person once said.

Anticipation