Lolita

Untitled butterflies, 1958 by Vladimir Nabokov

Lolita has always been a spiteful and bitter woman. She has no qualms about causing a scene in public, unleashing her anger without hesitation. Whether it's lashing out at Grandad with a punch to the gut, making a fuss over trivial matters, or publicly humiliating someone she dislikes for no apparent reason, she revels in her erratic behavior. As time passed, her volatile nature has only intensified, leading the nuns at the home to suspect dementia as the culprit. They say dementia is feeding on her grey matter, causing regions of her brain to atrophy and her grip on reality to slip away. However, I find it hard to determine if I agree with the nuns, as I've always known her as a spiteful and bitter woman. Her mind seems to embody darkness and emptiness, while she personifies repressed anger and grief. People are repelled by her, fearful of facing the darkness that resides within themselves. Yet, it's only a matter of time before these individuals, who cower in her presence, also reach their breaking points. They too will experience explosions of exuberance and depression, pushing themselves to the edges of their own light, breaking free from the chains that restrain their primal instincts. If they continue to deny the existence of their own inner Lolita, they will surely decay in the shallowness of their superficial lives.

Lolita, I understand why you harbor such deep disdain for the world and the burdens it has imposed upon you. You are a sentient being trapped in a body weakened by genetics, nature, and the impending grasp of death. In moments of lucidity, you seek to justify your worth, recounting your achievements and outstanding qualities. Memories surge through your mind like flashes of lightning, a brief respite before the storm erupts once more, unveiling your brilliance for all to see.