Random (1)

There was once this little girl, Clio by name. Yes yes, her parents were fond of Greek mythology. But then a name makes such a difference to one’s personality sometimes. Once she had fallen down somewhere and was crying because of a slight scrape on her knee, her father picked her up, sat her down on his lap, and in a attempt to make her forget about her wound and thereby stop crying, told her what her name stood for. “You’re the angel of Heroic poetry,” he whispered to her, as though it was some profound secret not meant for everyone to hear, “you cannot cry.” It worked like a charm, Clio forgot about her wound immediately. You see, she had been called an angel before, but never had anyone given her, an angel, a purpose. “Heroic poetry” she kept saying to herself. Feeling the words, hearing them in her mind, seeing the shape of them in the mirror. She was fascinated with her purpose. She was not very sure what it meant, but she was fascinated by it. She imagined, it had to be something important, because her father had said, she cannot cry, was not allowed to cry. She internalized that, took that little remark to heart. She resolved that she would never ever cry again, no matter what. And she never did. Not when she fell down, not when someone took away her toy, not even when someone bullied her. She was proud, and filled with purpose. As she grew though, she forgot why she did this, why she controlled herself. She forgot why she couldn’t let herself cry when her father died in an accident right before eyes. Why she couldn’t let herself feel the hurt and betrayed when she heard her relatives turning against her mother. Then one day, the first day of college, she suddenly remembered. She remembered why literature and theatre always attracted her. She remembered how her father had always read to her from some classic or the other, his soothing voice putting her to sleep. She remembered that day – the day her father had told her of her purpose in life. Remembered how she had thought that as an angel of Heroic poetry it was her duty to be like a hero, strong and never crying. As often happens with life I suppose, she remembered, and reveled in that memory.

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