'Callouses- Or is it Calluses?- on my feet again. And now they're beginning to blossom all over my brain too. Sleep- I'll douse it for a bit, and smile a lot in the morning, and do things. And talk to people. Perhaps I should read some old kiddy books. And make plans to watch a movie tomorrow. Or two. And I really must get down to work. There's so much of it piled up. And Christmas presents for everyone. And I'll get some of that peppy, filmi music- it's a bit more cheerful. Liven things up. And... and- oh, there's so much to do anyway. I'll never get all of it done. I'd better not take any more things on my head. Not one moment to rest. Of course. I'm not complaining, but noone does these things if I'm not around. Half- a- dozen bulbs were fused in the house, and the blankets were filthy, and there was a mouse practising jumps into the waste-basket in the guest bedroom. I had to go out myself to get the bulbs, and get everything done, and I'm so tired now...

No, that isn't why I'm tired.
I'm sorry. I forgot it was you.'

A little girl sat on my lap the other day.
Pale and light with a Miss Universe smile and a thin, squeaky voice.
And unlike those pale little girls in poetry and fairy stories, she talked.
She talked a lot, and quite loudly.
Told me how she'd got 18 out of 24 stars that term, the highest in her class.
About how she took care of her baby brother the whole afternoon while everyone was out.
About how she'd got three books out of the Sunday School cupboard because they had been lying there for a long time.
Then she offered me- first the yellow one, then the brown one, and then the green one.
And when I told her it was alright, she should keep them, she said- No, you take.
And then, with great concentration, with her toes tucked around my ankle, she wrote in the yellow one and gave it to me.
I took it.

Presented to... Rhea didi
By... Moneta Minoy
Date... 23.11.2008

She looked up at them with baleful eyes.

They were looking at the little girl with muddy knees and defiant chin.

They didn't notice.

She went away.

She looked at the ivy-covered bungalow over the wall.

It asked what was wrong.

She didn't say it out loud, for they would think she was mad if they heard.

She mouthed the words and thought as loud as she could.

Attention.

It was so foolish to want it... So un-grown-up.

But she was hungry for it, and she wouldn't ask for it, and she wouldn't get it, and she wanted to cry.

The TV was loud, and her mind drifted off to it sometimes, forgetting what she was crying about.

"This programme presented by... Make your home the envy of the world ! Bring home..."

Then she felt the tears again, and felt angry. Only weak people pity themselves.

She cried some more.

Silly crybaby. Foolish girl. Stop it.

If someone came in ?

They would think she'd gone funny if she sat around howling for no reason.

For of course she couldn't tell them.

They had enough on their minds.

Everyone had enough problems of their own.

She wasn't going to shove hers onto them as well.

And they might laugh.

She didn't know why they should, but people were odd.

They might laugh. And that would hurt.

No.

She pushed it all away, and smiled a weak smile at the bungalow, which was quietly contemplating what she'd told it.

She told it not to bother.

It would all be alright.

From the bottom of the stairs, someone called her name.

Twice in five seconds.

A bitter half-smile.

Then she blanked her face, and went down.

How, then, of those who truly live ?

Who warm those around into life,
and leave dancing shadows behind them.

The rain fell with a clatter

On the roof.

Steeled, determined, piercing.

It drummed on the house,

Steadily beat the ground around.

Things glowed in the half-light,

Unreal.

Everything shone glassy, and glimmered.

Darkened sky-brow,

Concentrating

On hammering the earth into itself.

How painful.

How painful for the little child with the dark circles under her eyes, who peeps nervously at passers-by out of the car window.

How painful for the soft-faced man who drags his feet and sags his shoulders when yet another car-horn sounds alarmingly loud in his ear.

How painful for the small-eyed housewife who cringes when the child bawls and the steel plate with all the rice in it tips over and lands clanging, white-showering the floor.

How painful for the old, fat woman with hair grey and black who sits rocking in her chair to the mundane life-sounds from outside and has dreams of people who died this last month.

How painful for the blustery, balding bachelor when he finds himself alone.

How painful for the tired professional who turns the key into the dark, empty flat, and sets the alarm by the light of the microwave.

How painful for the pale, bespectacled boy, when all the rest win and he does not.

The question really, then, is- What happens to the Little Dull Girl who was Good, but not Great enough ?
We've seen the Adventurous Girl go out, have an adventure and then settle down with the nice (old?) man, for a safe- and- sound happily ever after.
Does that mean, then, that the soft, plain girl who likes safety gets the slapdash, unreliable black sheep ? As reward ?
Being good doesn't pay as well as it ought. I've always felt that. Noone says thatnk you for all the times you've been good. And if/ since opposites attract, it seems being good doesn't pay in the long run either.
Sad.
But the Bible says so too- in that bit that I've never quite agreed to. The part that says that there's more joy in heaven over the one sinner who repents than there is over a hundred men who've been good all along.
I mean, it isn't fair.
It's practically telling you to be bad all you're life, just say you're sorry on your deathbed, and it all works out ok.
As I said, unfair. To all those people who believe Being Good, rather than the Reward, is the point of the exercise. They actually deserve the rewards, and consequently, won't get them.
And so, my little girl, with the small imagination and the big mind and feeling, will be stuck with some horrible bastard whom she'll compensate for till Kingdom come, with no remuneration. Again, unfair.
But... that's the way it is, I guess.
Someone goes wrong, and someone makes amends.
someone cries and someone laughs.
Someone gives up his illusion so that others can keep theirs.
Some live so that others may dream.
Some dream so that others may live better.