Honeybee

Metamorphosis
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2020-06-20 22:35:42 (UTC)

Poetika

My sister tells our guests about her ex and it gains her sympathy. It gains her words of admiration and encouragement, and I can see in my mother's eyes how much she acknowledges that my sister suffered. At the risk of sounding a little selfish, what about what I've been through? What about MY pain, MY tears, MY restless nights? Why is her story the tale of wisdom and experience while mine is the one kept secret? And I won't say anything, obviously, because I've made up my mind to be strong and skip needing other people's sympathy.

This morning I woke up from a dream that brought all that thought out of my subconscious. I dreamt I was in some public place when a guy started talking about one of my teachers in a very disrespectful and sexually vulgar way. I told him that was extremely rude and that it was best to stop that kind of talk when his response was that I only think and behave that way simply because I'm not flirted with like my sister. The only redeeming quality in that dream was that it allowed me to go and kick his ass. The cat's out of the bag, though. Not that it was a surprise.

When she puts on her modern love songs, I fail to decide whether to lock myself in my room and cry or smash the TV to bits in a fit of rage. Then it occurs to me how much C still resides in my head, his voice, his thoughts, ridiculing the romantic for the sake of reason and logic and biological evolution. I'm yet to regain that innocence, or maybe it's lost forever. I also keep in mind that I never went for the cheesy kind anyway. My heart is persuaded by complexity and wit, by poetry rather than pop songs, by stories rather than flirting. This is who I am. Maybe I'll always lack that physical beauty the likes of my sister possess, but I have the ability to create beauty of a different kind--the kind that would attract the likes of me in return.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that to walk down the road and get a flirtatious glance from a stranger cannot possibly compare with walking that same road and plotting a novel, or constructing a painting by the time you're home again. Because then I walk and I'm happy as I fulfill my potential, feeling so in sync with the universe. And that's so much more than what these mindless zombies can ever attempt to comprehend.


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