Fail, not frail

Walking back home from a tough day, the songs wired into her ears as usual, have lost the capability to fight her thoughts. Her eyes, that on other days feed love to the stray munchkins passing by, can’t even hold contact with any creatures on the street today. She knows all too well, that any pair of eyes she looks into, would ask the same question, causing her to give the same shattering reply, with a reciprocation in the form of sympathy, judgment, or worse even, pity. “Better luck next time”, they will say. Well luck?! Has it come down to that now?
No. She cannot allow that. She cannot allow the mundane to set in herself. Her loss is not as stereotypical as to be received with brimming tears, or to be vent out slamming in anger, or to be caressed and smothered with sympathy. Her loss needs to be celebrated. Which she will, not with other beings, but with herself. This celebration, she intends, be a send-off, a “farewell to thee”; this celebration, she intends, be a warning, a “here I come Victory”


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