SS # 55: Secret Identity

Deep inside me, somewhere it is hidden. It shows in flashes, little by little. My secret identity. I have to hide it. But it breaks out from inside me, all the longing, just wanting to tear away...!
Yesterday I saw the news. They were showing a man. He hit the ball so hard that it flew over the stadium. Later he was the Man of the Match. In the cricket World Cup.
I imagined myself: hitting that ball. My speech, oh, how wonderful it would be! What a hero I would be! But...
Before that there was a singer on TV. She was singing her heart out. Her dress had shiny, sparkly, sequins on it. Everyone loved her.
I imagined myself dancing that routine, singing that song. My hips would move so gracefully! But...
Way, way, before they showed a man. He was fighting near the border. He was fighting for what he believed in.
I dreamt of doing that. Of showing the world that I cared. I would go to the ends of the earth to show that. But...
But I have a family to feed, and children to raise.

Comparison

Beautiful women, walking down the runway. Their breasts bounce slightly with each step. Their faces are grotesque art pieces. I lean on my broom and watch them. They seem like zombies, yet perfect angels. This one has horns, the next one has a halo. But both of them are staring, glaring, glowering.
Do they ever regret their lives? Do they ever regret coming here, watching their faces being transformed, being criticised like some food? Or do they like it? Attention is plenty, but they are like robots. Beautiful robots who have no opinions and are reduced to having to let other people choose for them, and write their personality all over their face.
Maybe I am just a janitor, but I am glad that I choose my looks.