The Fabulous Life of Charlotte Abergé
The light forced itself through the blinds to illuminate a small room, housing a lonely author. The writer lifted her paw, grabbing the white quill with quite an effortful grasp as if afraid to let go. She dusted off the abandoned pen and gazed attentively into the blank piece of paper. Her mind flowed easily into the page, though her aged arm could not keep up with the pace; her thoughts exploded loudly as if they had waited eons to be marked in the physical world where they would not be abandoned. And so, she started:
I am sure you know of Ms. Charlotte Abergé (with an accent on the é) for she had such a haughtily refined name and such a truly extraordinary life.
For a name like Charlotte Abergé, you would imagine her to have designed the newest, top-selling line of spring garments that fulfill your Neopets’ desires, as they stand, plastered against the clear NC Mall windows, their eyes attentive as if they belonged to Wallace the Wobbly Wocky warder who had been assigned the overwhelming task of seizing the infinite stream of falling objects with unmatched dexterity. But no, Charlotte Abergé was not the mind behind the latest collection, or behind any of the NC Mall collections since the shopping center first opened, for that matter.
Charlotte Abergé was a Wocky. I have no doubts that she could have installed herself as the next great Go!Go!Go! player, remaining undefeated for round after round or the next explorer to discover elusive Neopian lands like Moltara and Goldrun that have grabbed our attention with their allure or the next chemist who would fuel an incredible research, discovering the chemical makeup of Dr. Francis Q. Sloth’s body. Nevertheless, she did not lend her genius to any of the mentioned activities.
I think, so far, I have been demanding too much of Charlotte Abergé. After all, she was only a Blue Wocky. No, she was not on the ranks of the Royal crowns or Faerie wings, as some may have induced; she had a very standard color. Her complexion itself was also regular – I guess she could have passed off as “pleasant” if she were to show her smile. She was definitely not repugnant, and I do not think she was ever able to evoke a strong emotion of repugnancy. However, that begs the inquirer to wonder if she was ever able to evoke a strong emotion.
I have established that Charlotte Abergé was an average Blue Wocky and for an average Blue Wocky she could have done so much. She was not born with any particular hindrances and I would dare say even if Fortune was unkind to her, her life would still be the same. Lucky as she was, Charlotte Abergé was born with as many perfections and imperfections as most of us. Also, as most of us, she had an incredible freedom to follow any path that would have pleased her.
Charlotte Abergé was a friend, or rather, an acquaintance of mine. On the afternoons I had encountered her, she would comment on the Neopian weather. She was always curious about the forecast, the probability of raining tomorrow or being too hot the following morning. Given her immense interest on the atmospheric conditions of our planet, I daresay I visualized her as a meteorologist, one day. I feel it is a shame to admit that she never did become one, however.
Another common subject of my conversations with Charlotte Abergé was her dreams. She always felt a strange physiological need to report, in rich details, her dreams to me; they were very bizarre ones, too. I did not know if her nightly images were a fabrication of her expansive imagination or the subconscious manifestation of her strong will, but she failed in living up to any of them.
Charlotte Abergé had a fabulous life, yet so unlived.
The author paused. She noticed the time that had passed; the light was now fainting and she could hardly see the marks she made on the paper. Nevertheless, she could not stop writing. In her head, she could picture all the things she wanted to express.
At this point, you might doubt the truthfulness of my words. In the beginning of this text, I said that Charlotte Abergé had an extremely ordinary life and that you probably knew her. I think it is only appropriate for me to correct a small mistake: I am sure you know of a Charlotte Abergé, a girl full of dreams, a girl with the capabilities of attaining them.
Why should you, then, make the same mistakes I did? Why should you make the same mistakes I regret today? Why should you be so heartless as to let Charlotte Abergé sink in the darkness of the un-trodden path? Why should you make her wonder if she could have filled an aching void with her dreams? I beg you, if you know Charlotte Abergé, do not, in any way, allow her to live a fabulous, unlived life.
Tell her to wander about all the myriad lands of Neopia, from the rising heights of Faerieland clouds to the depth of the magma core of the globe. Tell her sail fearlessly into the Neopian oceans, since any outcome, even in the most turbulent waters, would still be preferable over consternation of not having travelled at all.
Feed her curiosity about the world. Feed her with the knowledge in the Neopian books, from the titles of Happy Times with Rainbow Blumaroo to Advanced Thermodynamics and allow her to gain not data, but understanding. An understanding that would flourish in any situation, against any conditions – that would stand despite any challenges, and if unchallenged, would be readily put to valuable use.
Do not lead her into believing she is “just average,” for she is not. No one is. She is special, and she has potential to accomplish the most special. Do not lead her into fear of embarrassment or fear of disapproval for being more than what some would have expected from her, for she is there to overcome, to overachieve.
Do not stop her from savoring joy because there is not a single feeling that is better than the sweet taste of success. And if it be bittersweet, I still think is better nothing. Do not stop her from touching the stars because every time her fingertips meet the bright light, her body and her mind absorb some if its incandescent quality and reflect as she shines over the skies.
The author paused, again. She pressed her body against the window to borrow quaint rays so she could reread her work. She considered if her words were effective enough, acknowledging, on the back of her mind, that she would never be fully satisfied with it. Adamantly, she determined that this very message had to be conveyed to at least one person; she asserted, “one more Neopian who reads means one less Charlotte Abergé.”
It was now awfully dark outside. The writer thought it was still better than being awfully dark inside. Before her quill came to a full stop, she signed her name at the bottom, right corner of the page: Charlotte Abergé.