Hiralious

Getting ready for the wedding she had no heart for, she wore a dress that fit her in the most flattering way, wore her make-up, wore her heels. Covered the blemishes on her face and let her hair fall to her shoulders. She wore the jewelry she knew, was going to be the other girls' envy. She sprayed her precious perfume that could be sold to serve a family of four for a month. She took some pictures she would later upload on facebook (and bask in the glow of compliments she received).
She went to the wedding.

She met the women , eyeing each other with naked amusement (and criticism). She greeted them with false enthusiasm (but then it was as commonplace as glitter of the dresses they wore) . Down at the table there was talk of how expensive the other woman's dress was, or which designer was it bought from. She jotted down a mental note to grab the hottest selling item by the same designer to serve as a shut up call for the woman next to her who didn't have the courtesy to return a smile.

The bride and groom were also subjectively analysed. The family, admittedly, had lived up-to the expectations of the society and pulled off a grand wedding. It gathered some acclaim in the end, to the parents' satisfaction (who spent a quarter of their life making money for this three-day affair) Everybody had showed off to the best of his abilities and the food was delicious!

She wasn't one person. She was every woman, competing against every other woman for an accomplishment that was as elusive in nature today as it had been for its countless aspirants in the past. The people whose self-obsession had seen to the fact that their services were only unto themselves throughout their life, whose battle for 'acceptance' and 'praise' had set them on a never-ending path of materialistic pursuits. And who had then, perished as all material does.

Throughout that evening, Originality wore an invisibility cloak, and cried.