Unremarkable
She's utterly unremarkable. A life of a little garden not barren, not much to look at either. Unachieved, unreported, uninspiring, unmotivated. A marking, a patch of a life, to signify such that 'a person exists', one day to be 'a person existed.'
She's no wonder, no marvel, nor is she resplendent marble in the galaxy of nebular glory. She blinks and blinked, lost in a haze of pinpoint lights in a lazy stargaze. What if I told you she wept too many times to count? That she stuck out her lip as a child to concentrate but lost the trait in a bid to grow up and be more as young women should be? That she yelled when she was angry and cried when she was furious because the world told her, showed her words weren't enough? That she traced out lines and sketches in a bid to make friends, to signify a commonality that they could initiate over. That she grew cold in the bath when her mother talked of her father's pride in her though it would mean going on without dear friends. That it was the first time she clammed up and thrust her own will deep down and that it would become a skill she would develop. That she loved the warm water cascade in a shower and summoned imagined worlds and imagined creatures between the steam. That she walked streets for love of walking streets, like that would be her life long act forever, a solitary scheme, listening for the different feels against her feet. That as she got older, she saw no charming portal in the door, saw no strange enchanting light bouncing off a puddle in the alleyway, saw no way to the magic lands, so magic became only the domain of books and imagination. That she once raced across a beach at low tide, ready to meet the sea, keep going into the sea, and never stop. That she unknowingly grieved when a wiser man told her that fathers are the universe and mothers are the Earth and what that meant for her life, in that case. That she had the Earth but no universe and no universal force. So she would remain a garden. Present and potential-less. That she felt exceptional when she stood up to read, that she revered the honour of being allowed to speak. That she knew herself to be dark and brutish but knowing she was built no other way. That she was loud and vocal with her dear ones but not one of them cared for it. That her own presence and sense of self could displease and discomfort. That she loved to hear from others in equal measure and it was good to listen to those around you. That she always had unkempt hair, never just tidy but rather tied back to what approximated neatness. That she slouched awfully most times, a consequence of persistent discomfort or pain in the abdomen, so she developed a habit of crouching forward. That she-made the vision board, wrote the screenplays, penned the one week, then month, then year, then five year plans, paid for the therapy, made progress and then made none at all. That she felt sorry for herself so many times as an adult, her teenage self would have been disgusted. That she began to wonder about nonexistence. That she tried so hard to reach and collaborate and engage but it never seemed to stick. That she began to see herself as a flitting leaf in all things. And she could not see, could not dance, could not breathe.
Unremarkable little leaf.