Excise the superfluous.
Distil to the essence.
Strip away fat, reveal the bones.
Expose meaning to the light.
And then write.
The Girl lived her whole life as if she were observed.
Whichever way she turned, she felt herself to be under surveillance. It became an obsession. Whoever – whatever – expected perfection. Every time she passed a shop window, she couldn’t help but notice the faint shadow behind her as she adjusted her hair, twitched her skirt, dabbed a speck of dust off her virgin-white blouse.
Mirrors were the worst. Just out of her eye-line, there was always someone – something. Watching. Waiting.
And she never quite measured up.
The Voice told her that there was always someone more pretty, taller, more radiant, neater, more balletic – just more than her. And she heard these utterances so often that they became her new truth.
With each reflection, each criticism, she felt herself disappear. She shrunk from the world, covered the mirrors in her home with newspaper, scratched away at the high-gloss kitchen cupboard doors with the carving knife so that not even her silhouette was visible.
She scratched away at herself.
The Watcher, watched, eyes burning bright. The Voice, spoke, taunting and cutting with words.
And then, then, she was gone.
And only then, did people remember her for her kindness, her generosity of spirit, her caring, comforting ways. And they missed her. They missed The Girl.
And then, only then, did they realise that seeing her for all her true qualities, had come too late.
I couldn’t resist taking part in this after seeing the image – what a strangely captivating thing it is! Please take a look at Ermilia’s blog and why not take part in Picture It & Write yourself? She posts a new image for inspiration every Sunday. Today, I’m using my lunch break wisely and creatively 🙂
They just don’t understand me. They just see what they want to see. I am incarcerated here in solitude, because of their own stupidity. Fools, the lot of them. Aren’t I just following my instincts, heeding a primordial call to do what my forefathers, my mothers on mothers did, in order to survive?
Grrrrrrr… This is frustration, not aggression! They refuse to listen, to pay attention to my needs. They aren’t the responsible ones, shrouding themselves in cotton, and wool and leather, walking upright, as if any of that makes them better than me! It’s a veneer, a facade, they are but animals too. Not that makes me inferior. At least I know who and what i am!
All I want is my food. The cat is an irrelevance.