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Of Isms & Schisms, Ideals & Reality

Something’s slipped.

The veil she used to hold in front of her eyes is gone. Suddenly, everything seems so…clear.

She turns away, disgusted by the reality she sees. But where can she go? She’s surrounded by what she once was - they stand, unseeing, actively choosing not to disabuse themselves of their ignorant notions.

They open their lips, and a chorus - no, a cacophony - erupts. She cringes at the motifs in their repulsive non-melody, strains she recognizes all too well: hopes, dreams, ideals, beliefs.

They laugh at her - pity her, they say - for she lacks the means to see the inherent beauty in the world around her.

What I lack, she reflects, is the shallow covering lying at my feet.

She picks it up - slowly, deliberately - and casts it away.
No, she chooses to see - truly see - even if she has to force herself to do it.

Biting her lip, she peels her eyes away from the overly optimistic masses. Let them call her a pessimist - she’ll train her ears to hear, but not listen. Perhaps one day, they’d realize that innocence is, in fact, a very, very small price to pay.

Perhaps one day, she’ll realize that some decisions are irrevocable, that some things, once lost, are lost forever, never to return. Perhaps one day, she’ll realize the true meaning of innocence, and of idealism. Perhaps - perhaps - one day, she’ll actually listen.



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