byChrisWhite – 2025
SHE GAVE without measure.
Food. Wine. Flowers laid at doors of the long forgotten. Cards delivered as reminders of love. She lifted the lonely into company. She clothed and educated the poor in dignity.
They loved her for what she gave. But she was unknown to them.
Rarely did they give in return. Not a card. Not a kind word. Not an open door or invitation.
Their silence she forgave. She told herself they were busy. Burdened. Consumed by life.
But the truth came clear. They had time enough for others. Just not for her.
And she was not only kind. She was brilliant.
Her mind cut through the world like a blade through soft fruit.
Where others stumbled, she solved. She saw the hidden joins of things, the secret decay in the beams of the house that was her world.
She spoke her truths and men called her mad.
For her thoughts were not theirs, her sight too keen, her voice too strong.
And so they despised her. Quietly. With smiles and dismissals.
Her generosity, her success, became their expectation.
Her brilliance and confidence became their wound.
She was punished for both.
She set tables no one came to. She poured wine into empty cups.
She laughed at the ghosts of saints.
She stared into the dark and whispered that mankind was cursed, that etiquette and gratitude were dead, that love was a lie spoken for gain.
They said she was insane.
But it was not madness.
It was knowledge.
And it killed her all the same.
To be great in a sea of arrogant mediocrity, to be generous among malignant selfishness…, what a horribly painful condition. For the providence of the greatest is to be mistaken and misconceived.
Their kindness called weakness.
Their genius called lunacy.
And their reward is silence, the long banquet of expectation where none but the dead take their seats.
Ramblings & Revelations 
Responses
To be scorned by societal indifference is a lesson in life. Every time we open ourselves to others, we risk rejection and a lack of empathy.
We build walls. We armor ourselves. Lack of appreciation leads to isolation. A flower that is neglected sunlight wilts.
Bitter and resentful, the fruits of our labor spoil and rot. What could have been becomes what was.
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Beautifully stated. Thank you.
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I Know That Woman, and This Why
I know that woman.
And this why.
I saw her move through rooms like a quiet tide, leaving plates, bottles, gifts — not because she had to, but because her heart insisted. She gave without measure, while the rest of us measured every little thing we gave back.
I know her because I saw how easily we accepted. We took the food, the drink, the kindness, like it was our birthright. We never asked what it cost her. We never noticed her hands were empty after she filled ours.
I know her because I heard her speak. Clear, sharp, too sharp for those who prefer their truths dulled. She said what others were too afraid to see. We dismissed her, with a smile and a shrug, because it was easier than admitting she was right.
I know her because her brilliance unsettled us. It made us small, and instead of growing, we tried to cut her down. We called her “mad.” We called her “too much.” All the while we needed her, leaned on her, expected her.
I know her because I watched her forgive us. Forgive the silence, the absence, the lack of gratitude. She told herself excuses for our neglect. She made our selfishness sound noble. She covered our failings with her grace.
I know her because I saw her sit at empty tables, wine poured for ghosts. I know the look in her eyes when laughter turns hollow. I know the whisper she carried — that love had become a lie, that kindness was just currency to be spent, never returned.
I know her because she was not mad. She was awake. And knowledge, in this world, is a death sentence all its own.
And this is why her story cuts so deep.
Because she is not one woman. She is many.
She is neighbour, sister, mother, friend.
She is the mirror we turn away from.
She is every giver punished for giving, every genius mocked for knowing.
I know that woman.
And so do you.
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Wow! Thanks for chiming in. I hope others are inspired to keep it going. This is fun, but serious fun.
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So powerful!
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Thank you!
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A prophet is never known in her own country!
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Sad though. I rarely write about things I know most about. I prefer to challenge myself to learn something. Plus, I’m a bit more free of biases and do less preaching when I’m pulling things out of imagination. This one, however, I unfortunately know well. And though she wouldn’t have wanted the attention, I knew I should share her experience. She doesn’t particularly care for my prose, she’s a literal sort, so she won’t know I wrote this…but knows I’m a big fan otherwise.
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You are a man of your word (pun intended).
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Wow! Thankyou for writing this.
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Thank you Iba, you’re welcome.
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I really liked this
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Thank you Joanne.
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Whew! that was good!
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Thank you Violet.
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[…] The Providence of Greatness […]
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Beautifully written.
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Beautifully written!
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Thank you Diana.
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powerful and yet lyrical. Thanks
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Thank you Cynthia. I was hoping it didn’t come across wrong. Having a little fun.
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