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Silent Fame

Figure framed in still life on a mental camera.
That pose:
Ankles cross and eyes drift a little to the side.
For one instant she is perfect,
Everything you want to be.
You burn to be identical,
A perfect copy,
You would be crazy to aspire to anything else.
Looking like that would assure that everything would work out,
You would be as perfect as she looked
Right in that moment.

Then she moves just a little,
The instant passes,
You must put down the camera.
You cannot help but remember that photograph.
It stays with you that day,
You want to be just like her.

Time is the teacher for this kind of fame:
It is hollow.
Even when you reach it,
It poisons you.

You can look in the mirror and smile at yourself.
Smile because right now you look even better,
Even better than the other girl.
You’re high on nothing because,
If she walked into the room right now,
You could toss back your hair laughing
And link your arm through hers in a friendly way,
because you don’t feel like her jealous
admirer anymore.
You would be her equal,
Maybe even just a little better.

Only then you start to wonder if you really look all right.
Are the edges still rough?
After a moment of pondering
You are a dilapidated mess.
If you saw that girl right now,
She would still make you feel insignificant.

This lingers on the edges for a while,
And you realize:
Even if you were just as beautiful,
No one would tell you.
No one would exclaim that you are what they want to be,
That they would give anything to look just like

And the poison is still there.
They say that they think you are pretty.
You wonder if they really mean it.
If they will still mean it tomorrow.

There are none but victims in the Silent Fame.
You will never be perfect.
You will not always feel adored.
You will not always feel good enough.
No matter how hard you work,
How long you work,
No one will tell you,
You are famous.

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