Here by Shaima Saleh

Posted on February 7, 2014 by


It is statistically established –or I could be bullshitting my way through, as it is my disposition to do so – that idiocy is proportionate to poor emotional scheming.  An overflow of emotion, joyous or otherwise, is destined by any means to create a rather ridiculous contortion of your face, which in turn is bound to profile you as an idiot: a temporary one, or a chronic invalid, depending on how recurrent your self-evaluation is.
I don’t suppose it is any fair of me to ask you to catalogue yourself in either book, and it isn’t exactly flattering that I claim the moral high ground when I am knee-deep in the principle gutter, and, in all fairness and no supposition, the ground is shifting beneath my feet leaving me enough stability to surmount to something, anything, but nothing more – I am too cheap to lend you any of that.
Exponential idiocy, I think you can call it; the inevitable effect of the staggeringly tactless going about humanity.  It catches on like an airborne virus, knocking down friends and loved ones one by one, bestowing emotional luggage upon departure, but all your eyes can see is the romance of it, and I refuse to be regarded a hopeless romantic, even if my shabby prayers are for me to be one.
So I stand stubborn and pensive, armoured in every strap of leather and every scrap of cloth I could find asking you to adorn me with a flower, a bow, a kiss upon the forehead, because this luggage needs to depart with sincerity of farewell and sensitivity of touch before it arrives back here, back to your state of Chronic Invalidity.

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