The Sad Reality
Short drabble about the life of dolls.
Seungri’s a doll.
He gets dressed up and to look very pretty and attends all sorts of important functions, like that tea party with the teddy bear and the play-date with the girl next door. He’s very well respected by all the other toys, he’s been around since the first birthday and now they’re coming up to their sixth anniversary. Where dozens of other toys have come and gone with hardly a memory to remember them by, Seungri’s still being played with and still loved and cherished.
People laugh at him, though. Laugh at him because he’s a doll. Who plays with dolls at seven years old, anyway? They’re for little kids. What is he doing in the world of big kids and even bigger bullies? They laugh at him because he comes with different sets of shirts and pants when they come with lasers and retractable wings. Even the other toys, they’ve got fancy gadgets and sounds and are battery operated for crying out loud! Seungri can’t even sit up by himself, the other toys wonder why he hasn’t been thrown out yet, or donated in secret to the city’s thrift store, claimed as lost.
But somehow, Seungri weathers through, keeps the artificial smile plastered on his face, nods and waves when prompted to, stays pretty and doll-like and maybe loved.
The time comes, though, when his importance seems to fade, or maybe he isn’t as brilliant as he’d thought he was. He gets buried underneath the missing pieces of puzzles and broken arms off of robots while the newer and shinier toys are picked before him. He’s forgotten as the world moves on; computer games and mobile phones and fancier trinkets all take the place of the tea set, the toy dinosaurs, and most especially the doll.
Seungri might be a doll, but he’d make one hell of a Korean idol.
Seungri’s a doll.
He gets dressed up and to look very pretty and attends all sorts of important functions, like that tea party with the teddy bear and the play-date with the girl next door. He’s very well respected by all the other toys, he’s been around since the first birthday and now they’re coming up to their sixth anniversary. Where dozens of other toys have come and gone with hardly a memory to remember them by, Seungri’s still being played with and still loved and cherished.
People laugh at him, though. Laugh at him because he’s a doll. Who plays with dolls at seven years old, anyway? They’re for little kids. What is he doing in the world of big kids and even bigger bullies? They laugh at him because he comes with different sets of shirts and pants when they come with lasers and retractable wings. Even the other toys, they’ve got fancy gadgets and sounds and are battery operated for crying out loud! Seungri can’t even sit up by himself, the other toys wonder why he hasn’t been thrown out yet, or donated in secret to the city’s thrift store, claimed as lost.
But somehow, Seungri weathers through, keeps the artificial smile plastered on his face, nods and waves when prompted to, stays pretty and doll-like and maybe loved.
The time comes, though, when his importance seems to fade, or maybe he isn’t as brilliant as he’d thought he was. He gets buried underneath the missing pieces of puzzles and broken arms off of robots while the newer and shinier toys are picked before him. He’s forgotten as the world moves on; computer games and mobile phones and fancier trinkets all take the place of the tea set, the toy dinosaurs, and most especially the doll.
Seungri might be a doll, but he’d make one hell of a Korean idol.