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S(he) is ugly
On a bright heated afternoon in a room drowned in gloom, full of chaos's tranquility, was a man sleeping. As for his physical appearance he was ugly, and was balding too. And he was tired of people calling him ugly. Deep down in his sleep if you can climb down the stairs of his dreams and see the world his mind chose to roam in, you'll see him standing in front of a mirror, his eyes wide, his face uglier with dark flesh which somehow feels dead. He closes up his face nearer the mirror, his eyes out wider, stretching the nerves on them, his eyeballs dancing, scanning his own face. His hands now shake, his face now aches but his eyes still fixated his dark flesh still dark, and ugly which was somehow getting darker and uglier with every passing second. The madman was about to what felt like scream but then the silence was shattered by the alarm clock. The dream now collapsed, the man now out of his own thought prison, his face is now relieved.
He lazily gets up from his bed, picks up his white towel and strolls to the shower room. Standing beneath the shower with face facing upwards with eyes closed, the ugly man stands still as if lost in a lifeless pause. He opens his eyes, switches off the shower, wraps the towel round his waist
when his eyes catches the fallen strands of hair, quite many of them. He looks at them helplessly, he and plods out the bathroom with a tired face like a deflated football.
He then puts on his white shirt, takes a few steps towards the mirror, pauses and then walks to the main door, but he is hesitant to go out like any other day, for he is tired of people calling him ugly. He yet gathers the courage and strolls toward the metro station, he looks at the people around him in the metro in which he stood guilty, or not maybe.
His eyes stole a few glances of a girl a few steps away from him with bright eyes, dark hair and fair skin. She was, what they beautiful. His heart thumps with an unexplainable excitement, but a few seconds later self realisation kicks in hard. His eyes now facing down, a sudden air of toxic inferiority passes by him. His self drowning in the pit he created himself, he walks away. Or should I say he ran away.
Passing by the huge posters on the streets, posters of beautiful people, he looks at them with pretty straight face as if it was inevitable to face them perhaps. The day passes, the painter sells his paintings and when hunger begs again, the traveller reverts back.
When dusk completely lured the sky, and when the world was tired he was in a metro again, sitting this time. A woman stands infront of him with dark skin, an unsymmetric face, basically ugly. The man looks at her, indifferent. He opens his book, starts reading. A few stations pass then enters a girl. Only this time, she was attractive. The man notices her as she made her way in the crowded metro. As it was, she had to stand. Lucky for him, she stood near him. He steals a few glances, suppressing the guilt and only this time, he wasn't gonna give up easy. He stands up all of a sudden with gentle voice he says "You can sit if you want" and holds the support rod. The woman thanks him. His face goes red glowing like the moon. With a few slow steps he stand hear the gates, with a content smile in his face. Until he finds the ugly girl staring at him. "She is ugly" he tells himself as he looks away. The girl keeps staring at him with a tired face like a deflated football.
© thewordplayer
He lazily gets up from his bed, picks up his white towel and strolls to the shower room. Standing beneath the shower with face facing upwards with eyes closed, the ugly man stands still as if lost in a lifeless pause. He opens his eyes, switches off the shower, wraps the towel round his waist
when his eyes catches the fallen strands of hair, quite many of them. He looks at them helplessly, he and plods out the bathroom with a tired face like a deflated football.
He then puts on his white shirt, takes a few steps towards the mirror, pauses and then walks to the main door, but he is hesitant to go out like any other day, for he is tired of people calling him ugly. He yet gathers the courage and strolls toward the metro station, he looks at the people around him in the metro in which he stood guilty, or not maybe.
His eyes stole a few glances of a girl a few steps away from him with bright eyes, dark hair and fair skin. She was, what they beautiful. His heart thumps with an unexplainable excitement, but a few seconds later self realisation kicks in hard. His eyes now facing down, a sudden air of toxic inferiority passes by him. His self drowning in the pit he created himself, he walks away. Or should I say he ran away.
Passing by the huge posters on the streets, posters of beautiful people, he looks at them with pretty straight face as if it was inevitable to face them perhaps. The day passes, the painter sells his paintings and when hunger begs again, the traveller reverts back.
When dusk completely lured the sky, and when the world was tired he was in a metro again, sitting this time. A woman stands infront of him with dark skin, an unsymmetric face, basically ugly. The man looks at her, indifferent. He opens his book, starts reading. A few stations pass then enters a girl. Only this time, she was attractive. The man notices her as she made her way in the crowded metro. As it was, she had to stand. Lucky for him, she stood near him. He steals a few glances, suppressing the guilt and only this time, he wasn't gonna give up easy. He stands up all of a sudden with gentle voice he says "You can sit if you want" and holds the support rod. The woman thanks him. His face goes red glowing like the moon. With a few slow steps he stand hear the gates, with a content smile in his face. Until he finds the ugly girl staring at him. "She is ugly" he tells himself as he looks away. The girl keeps staring at him with a tired face like a deflated football.
© thewordplayer
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