Every time you refuse to acknowledge. In the hope that they. And call them gorgeous instead. Actually putting yourself on a pedestal. That they being who they are. In their shape and their form. For you not only to refuse to. You can call a fat person. It just feels that way.

A tiny rock, hidden inside the mud. A crow pecks at it. Until it falls into the stream. And gets swept, along with the other rocks. Each irregular and unique in its own way. Deviated from its journey, now flows along with the rest. Stripped of its rough edges,. The river ends at the Banyan Tree. And disposes off the stone. Along with a thousand others. No longer quite so unique. In this great, great world.