like dew to the pasture

Of the manifold forms rejection can present itself, none is so mortifying as this.

It could’ve been covert and underhanded; a sly succession of half-truths and white lies systematically building up into increments of connect-d-dots logic, gently guiding you to that one obvious conclusion. A steady stream of evasions and prevarications thinly veiling the ostensible impalatable. A cunning creeping stealth, a quiet merciful exit.

Instead it was neither discreet nor disguised. That the aggrieved is deemed undeserving of even subtle deception seems most damning of all. That the body can rebel so,  such that the mind could not restrain its somatizing and the recoil becomes unvolitional, almost reflexive, it is unthinkably unkind.

Psychic tension/insurmountable anxiety/an uber-sensitive constitution/quarter-life uncertainty/emotional ambiguity/an issue of identity: a hosts of all-too-convenient excuses to explain away the plain incorrigible.

"How simple it is, she thinks. No deep meanings, no secret truths,no buried mysteries. All was simple, all on the surface."

And it was this simple. You weren’t disconcertingly sub-normal nor utterly repellent — just inconsequential.

And while it is tempting to regress to that old reclusive rancorous self — that safe shunning haven — you find that you can wait till things tide over. You wait for the "cokestorm" to subside.

Afterall it is not a crime. A waste of time maybe, but definitely not a crime.