Small Dreams,а Matter of Indifference

A little girl has little dreams —

they fit inside her hands.

A phone that lights the evening up,

a child’s laptop,

a games console humming quietly

like hope plugged into the wall.

Her second dream is simpler still:

that the rats would finally leave her be —

the ones who hiss from shadowed screens,

who gnaw at joy for sport,

who hate her not for what she’s done

but for the crime of being.

There is one in particular —

a voice with no face,

brave only when unnamed.

He clings to the internet

like mould to damp walls,

convinced he owns the air she breathes.

He is from the past,

from schoolyard poison and borrowed cruelty,

toxic before he learned the word for it.

He wants to run her life

because he never learned

how to run his own.

The third dream grows quietly,

like a spine straightening:

to stop shrinking for people

who carry their hatred

as a hobby,

as a personality,

as a substitute for purpose.

She lives elsewhere now —

in another country,

in another chapter,

in a life that does not ask his permission.

And slowly, steadily,

she learns the truth

that sets her free:

Rats can scream,

but they cannot rule.

They can follow,

but they cannot lead.

And they certainly cannot decide

who she becomes.

A little girl has little dreams —

and that is how big futures begin.

You mistake persistence for power.

It is not.

The world does not rearrange itself

to suit a single irritation.

It moves on—

with impressive efficiency—

and notices very little.

If I were truly as dreadful

as you insist,

you would have passed me by

with the others who do not matter.

Indifference is effortless

when contempt is sincere.

Yet here you are.

Lingering.

Returning.

Writing.

Not out of strength,

but out of absence—

of purpose, of audience, of peace.

You imagine your words as pressure.

They are not.

They are background noise

to a life governed elsewhere.

You do not manage my days.

That authority was never vacant.

There are parents.

There are boundaries.

There is a future

that does not request your opinion.

You cannot instruct the world

to despise me on your behalf.

Hatred requires cause;

yours appears to be

a solitary hobby.

One might ask—calmly, professionally—

what offence was committed.

And when no answer arrives,

the conclusion is routine:

this is not about guilt,

but about ownership denied.

I was never yours.

That, it seems, is the crime.

I am needed elsewhere.

I am chosen.

I am not alone—

which rather dismantles

your preferred ending.

You linger in anonymity,

as though concealment lends weight.

It does not.

It merely confirms

that this is your burden,

not mine.

Say what you wish.

Think what you must.

Consult whom you like.

I remain—

entirely unaffected,

perfectly unmoved,

and quite beyond your reach.