sharing something

She was always- you could expect it, very flat, very dull, the sort of figure one does not, in fact, require noticing. Her silence, the thing she had held onto for no other reason than that it made her feel somehow unique even though it did nothing but make her worthy of passing by along the crowded, unlovable streets and not be bothered about it a bit but she didn’t know that or else she might’ve left the whole charade behind, she might've changed. Instead, she got worse as can be reasonably expected in the miserable life story of a person becoming, indefinitely, a nonperson, a thing that is not and could never be actually, truly real because real people did not need to question whether they were real. Real people just were real and she, lard cow, that she, clearly was and had always been, was not. She, whoever, whatever she was, was simply not real, simply not a part of any world or realm. She was cold. She was empty. She was, on the whole, a terribly, terribly unremarkable and unlovable being and she had no right to claim herself at all. She was nobody. Nothing. And that was not likely to ever change.