Iris

The showbiz had finally thrust itself into the eye and for the rest of her life, she had to walk with a giant circle, circling in colors of black, red, and orange, and though she could only look through the lens of an ignorant, the thirst of knowledge had become such a great flavor for her, that she endured all the constant taunts for her appearance.

“Ridiculous! They say, also, stupid! I think I will say instead, unique, special, clairvoyant if you so desire!” she said one day where her disgusting appearance had so touched the nerve of a well endowed man that she ended up crawling in the floor with blood on her mouth.

The eye circled and swam all across the world looking for an answer for this particular outburst and when it had finally found an answer and people began to surround her, she was overcome with a strange urge to cry and laugh at the same time. So she did both and cursed her luck and savored her loneliness, that had become spicy with all the what ifs and could haves.

“One day I will understand, of course, why my life was wasted on such bullshit…” she sighed as she curled herself up in a little embryo as if embraced by the mother she never had. And the truth was that the pain she felt was of the conscious, finally forced to come to terms with the vain, spoiled, unforgiving, repugnant, trivial, immoral matters that used to concern her now brought to the front. In her eye, she had to live and overlive the same things vapid nonsense that she had once loved: in art, in people, in the outside and the inside, in the sex, in her few social circles.

“I am facing myself, I think, but in such an exaggerated way, so overwrought that it is hard to take seriously,” she said weakly and saw how the eye grew bigger and bigger as it looked like she had a strange lava lamp globe protruding from her socket. She had done enough lamenting and enough fighting and the reason she felt that was that if she tried to do it again, she would see it all in her eye: how useless and whiny she was, how her words were chosen so poorly, how much she had ignored the true struggle of others and how it all compared to her own, and the social and political diameters of those who surrounded her.

“I know, I know, I know and that is all this is good for,” she said and finally decided if embarrassment and shame were past her, the only thing left for her was a pride as never told or felt before.

She beamed to herself as she stumbled across the many instances of people scared and turned on by her presence, and she answered back, with an eye that was so ever persistent in showing her flaws.

“Show it to them! Show them what I am, no lies, no lies!” she said and whenever she said that, she imagined that it would burst and fill the people around her with the infected bile of the error of her ways, of the things she most feared and craved, and they would at least stop laughing and pitying and just simply let her make mistakes like anyone else.

“Someone here is bound to help me, right? And love me for who I am, it is not every human’s life to be wasted? We cannot just come here to be born and die unlucky,” she said this, over and over again, to whoever would listen to wherever she would travel, and nobody knew what to say. Her eye would create waves as in an ocean answering, showing her the wounded infested absurdity of her very human quest.