Life as a wallflower

I’ve gotten so used to being a wallflower – to melt in with the background, more or less unseen – that I fear it has become my hideaway, my shadow(s) and my safeguard. My curse and my blessing.

On the one hand, I can disappear whenever I want to, my appearance wonderfully prosaic to go about unnoticed. I wonder if I was as beautiful as one wish I would never be able to do so..? That is certainly a scary thought and I feel grateful to be – me.

But, on the other hand, I cannot pull myself from the tapestry and separate my voice from the background ambience for more than a couple of minutes and once again waver out of memorable existence.

It’s like I’m stuck to the walls in a sticky mass of fierce independence and modesty; my personal space so highly guarded and untouched, only my chameleon social skills enable me to adjust to the friendly, polite touch from friends and strangers every now and then and not recoil. I can step out from the wall but will always return to become one with it; into the mist of the back of people’s heads, once or twice pulled forth when an associative thought or feeling appear by chance. I appear and disappear. No matter what I do or will do, in the end, I cannot force people to remember anything of significance about me. I guess, it is the curse of being a forgettable, mortal human being. But we cannot, after all, remember everyone we have ever met, can we?

So be it. (Self-)pity is not required. I cannot blame my curse for being blessed or my blessing for being cursed. I should just be grateful I have the possibility of being both.


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