Doormat

I.
What’s always beneath
Possibly clean and fluffy
Possibly dirty and scruffy?

What’s crushed beneath the heels
Always under
Never above?

What’s airing in the warm breeze
Or hidden in the drawers
Smelling naturally warm or musky?

What’s always unappreciated
Possibly forgotten
But always endearing?

BINGO.

A doormat

A doormat to crush and step on
A doormat for the warmth of heels

A doormat overlooked
But always remembered by the heels.


II.
Fluffy and warm
Dirty and scruffy

Low and crushable
Endearing and strong

Perhaps a doormat in making
But a survivor in action.

Kel. 21 November 2004.


Dear *doormat

I hope you are pleased. It is not everyday and everyone who can demand a blog from cold hearted me. Please prostrate in eternal gratitude.

From yours truly
Me.

***

Ah. The wonders of a nice fluffy thick doormat. Ok, basically, *doormat has childishly demanded to be named and written in yours truly blog. Why? I have no idea. *shrug*

But as yours truly is in a denial mood aka would do anything except study for my exams on Tues, yours truly decided to indulge *doormat with a brief mention.

Yes, this is really brief and completely without substance (not that much of yours truly blog has much either) and of cos, it completely does not tell one anything about *doormat.

Yes, yours truly could mention that *doormat is currently teaching in Japan, currently resisting temptations in the form of 15 years old good looking high school kids, currently in swings of cheerfulness and moodiness with a dash of occasional whining and self-pitying, etc, but do you really want to know all that?

Yes? Really? People are so weird. *arched brows*

Well, too bad, yours truly has a limit to indulging others, and she has just reached the end of the quota for today. Please try again in the next hundred odd years or so.

Adieu.

***

"Ode from a Doormat

You may think I'm so low, that I don't matter, that I am crushable and beneath you, but consider how I work. Consider how I have survived. I take your dirt, but I am not your dirt. Yes, you wipe your heels on me, and because you do, I know nearly everything about you, where you've been, what you're likely to do next.

You don't value me, it's true. But does that mean I have no value? Perhaps I get along best allowing you to believe what you want to believe, think you are above me, superior, in charge. Are you though? When you are dust, your dust will find a place on me as well. On me, not in me.

Maybe this is not the life for you. But it is a life, believe it or not. It may not be your life. It may terrify you. I sense your fear, through your soles. I can tellyou are wearing out… just look at those scuff marks. But what would it accomplish to say anything about that?

We doormats know how and why we keep our counsel. Doormat confessionals are few and far between, and when they come, they often reveal far less about the doormat than about those who've walked on or over us. We doormats are a private sort of folk. Why would we be otherwise? "

(http://home.earthlink.net/~derdriu/doormat.htm)