Routine

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply mascara. A dash of lipstick.

Have your smile crack wide open like the dawn of day. With feelings you’ve barely scraped from the corners of your being and collected to the centre of your heart, hold them. Tell them you’ve missed them, even though you didn’t; even though all you did miss was your presence amongst them.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply mascara. A dash of lipstick.

Smile genuinely, with kindness you take pride in giving. Tell them how wonderful they look. Notice all the little, inconsequential differences; augment and dazzle them. Care, or at least pretend to do with some measure of skill.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply mascara. A dash of lipstick.

Smile with hilarity you find with the corner of your eye. Refocus your attention and fuel your laughter with the remnants of the edges of that frame. Today, you show a sliver of yourself; drop in a book’s name, maybe a movie’s. Smile with reminiscence and disappointment as they tell you: you have not changed, you’re very different.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply mascara. A dash of lipstick.

Realise the show is not about you any more. You’re the sidekick who gets kicked in the guts when the lead is out of wits and tricks. “Phew!”, you wipe the heaps of metaphorical sweat off your forehead. And so you carry on being the dutiful sidekick you are; you listen- no, not listen. You just hear, as garbles of discourse pass by your ears. You hear, you nod, you sigh.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply mascara. A dash of lipstick.

Smirk. That’s all you can afford to do when ridiculousness swarms you. Because you finally understand that hearing means reiterating everything you heard. Hearing means taking the flag from their hands and offer martyrdom for the cause. Hearing, in its most basic form, is lobotomy. How silly, you think, you have been to think you are something more than a projection wall. 

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Wear your pyjamas. Write about it.

 

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Routine

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