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She’s boring, really, to those who don’t know her for who she is. She’s dull-looking, of weak presence, and the gazes of the crowd never settle on her but instead slip off her brittle form, brushing her aside and burying her existence beneath “more important things.”
She’s boring really. She doesn’t talk much, keeps quiet, to herself, too afraid to utter a word when the whirlwind conversations around her fly hither and fro. She can never get the words out before the winds change again and she’s left behind, too slow to catch up, too weak to pull them back. It’s easier to listen, for her. And the words never come out right anyway. She’s tongue tied too often, messes up the syllables and slurs the sounds and the witty comebacks she’s formed in her mind never sound so witty out loud.
It’s a pity, but she’s boring really. People don’t like her sort. Too quiet, they think. Too alone. Too boring, too shy, too awkward. She falls short of all the expectations and so the crowd turns their attentions to someone louder than her, bolder than her, more carefree than her. They like the people who never think before they act, who never worry about the details that matter, who live in whims and whimsical thoughts and thoughtless motions as they dance through the spotlight of life while she, she lurks as the shadows that watch and observe the flaws that make humans so unknowingly cruel while they boast to be so magnanimously kind.
It’s a pity, but she’s not boring really. She’s not stupid, she’s not dull, she has opinions that are as interesting as anyone else’s if anyone would just care to listen when she speaks, slowly and quietly, in a voice soaked in the soul-crushing fear of being forgotten and ignored.
She’s not boring, really. She’s sarcastic to a fault and if anyone tried to focus on her soft voice underneath the din of society, they’d hear her saying that she wished society knew it was the hypocritical bitch that it hated but, then again since it was, it would never know.
She’s not boring really. She’s careful, not a “party pooper” and she thanks society to never use such childish terms again even though society is very, very childish indeed with its narrow, pea sized, worm mind (and she’d like society to know she’s being very insulting as worms don’t actually have minds that can think properly, and she hopes that she won’t have to explain in words much simpler than that). She’s careful, she thinks ahead to make sure that her plans will work as plans should instead of crashing down about her head like those of the simpleminded misses and misters popularity. She gets things done, instead of just talking animatedly about them with no clue of all the things that will go wrong, all the things one needs to do to make a thing happen. They’re so clueless, popularity’s children are. She’s thinks she hates them a little for it.
She’s not boring really, but you won’t find that out unless you’re smart enough to pay attention to the one who’s made of shadows, to see that the most interesting creature in the room, the one being that deserves the most attention is the one who hides from it the most.
So, dear readers mine, look to the shadows, for they are not as immaterial as they seem.