The Script

The moon’s languid charm would have inspired the leisurely steps of lovers in the pavement but the sound of her slow, petrified footfall echoed into the dead night. With her eyes strained by the mishaps she had undergone, she stared at the moon. An enigmatic smile was painted across her face. Oh, the irony of it!

She took hold of her gown and drifted through time. In that same old pavement, she used to walk a thousand times with the smile of a jester and an air of nonchalance. But she has always respected the gloom that surrounds her. An imprudent air of warmth is an affront to the cold. She put on a modest mask. She never thought that flames could die and that the blood could run stale.

The heavy dose of reality she took from such recollection morphed her expression into that of fear. She ran and when she reached the ingress of the grand hall, she took a deep breath, swallowed her fears and put her mask on. It is the way things should be. She cannot afford to be gloomy in the light of a jovial celebration. When the populace put her up on a pedestal, she became a puppet devoid of any expression. She can only become what the rest of the world would want her to be.  Never was it known to any soul that she willfully cried in exasperation nor vexation.  If she ever did, every witness knew it to be a tale of ignominy. If she ever will, only the dark night will bear undiscriminating witness to her wails.

When the party is over, try to follow the trail of her wimpish gait and you will come to know a place of enfeeblement. You will hear her stories of defeat and struggle, of victories and bliss. You will realize how broken her soul has become. Until then, she will continue on wearing her mask and drown herself into a dead ocean.

May be her story was meant to go that way.

Un cri. Ce n’est pas une faiblesse.



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