Return of the Despicable It

For a long time, I lie thinking. I cannot go to sleep, try as I might. I try hard but in vain to empty my brain of the relentlessly goading thoughts.

It tries to be happy. It tries quite hard. Just like it tried before. At least make pretense. What it did not were the pretenses already there, laid bare too soon. It wanted to go on pretending that it was missed, loved, needed. It had falsely presumed the kindness of its owners. How could it not be fooled? It always gets fooled easily.

It doesn't want to feel. Hadn't it been trying hard not to for long? It had been alone. It had been so alone and no one knew and no one cared.

It saw people for what they were yet it knew what did it know anyway. It called itself a pig and swine. It hurt and then for some time it stopped to feel. For it is just a thing with legs, arms, eyes but it does not have rights. The least of them being the right to feel.

It thought it had mastered its anger. It learnt to ask for forgiveness. And what was it told? It was made fun of. It was laughed at. 'But it is just a fool! It does not have rights.' It doesn't have the right to feel yet it goes on feeling.

It is a foul reject. What does it know anyway? It knows nothing. When it tells truth, it is called a liar. When it tries to hide tears with smiles, an easy task, it is told that it's shameless.

Yes, it is shameless. It is shameless to feel for what does it know of feelings? It must kill itself to be like it was before.

When it said it was fragile, they just looked at the cage it had been trapped in and pointed and laughed, 'Could that be fragile?'

It is sad. It is sad and has been so for a so long that it has despaired for happiness. It, despondent; but what does it know?

It was built through the eyes of others' words. What personality may it have? That of a liar, truant, mischief maker, heartache? It has forgotten what it is so what can it say now that it is not so? It would thus become the suspected liar, would it not?

Yes, it doesn't know. It even forgets. It is most truly shameless. Sometimes it weeps then stops itself suddenly because it forgets why it started.

What shall this tyrant do?

It cannot defend. Cast as it is an evil, the bane of its masters existence. It is a coward. Yet, it knows also, the body is not its own. This mind nor this heart. Yet, it is a coward still. It is tired and still sleep won't come.

It is a most pathetic pig. If it were human, it'd make its duty to kill it in the most perverse way. Bring it death just as it lived; little by little with much pain and suffering. Isn't it already there? But what does it know? It knows nothing.