The Gravity of Unconcern: A Whimsical Trilogy

I. When She Notices You

It starts with a shimmer,

a glance gone astray,

a sparkle that tiptoes

across your whole day.

A woman takes notice—

the air seems to spin…

and that, dear wanderer,

is where troubles begin.

For trouble wears perfume

of moonlit allure,

with laughter that promises

nothing secure.

She drifts like a melody

strange yet well-known—

a waltz you were never

meant dancing alone.

She beckons with mischief,

with charm dipped in wine,

with riddles in ringlets

and smiles serpentine.

And suddenly gravity

tilts on its tune—

you’re caught in the pull

of your own rising moon.

Your heart starts composing

its bold serenades,

your thoughts go haywire

in shimmering grades.

You swear you’ll stay clever,

you plan to stay sane…

yet whimsy takes over

and logic turns vain.

For “man’s ruin” isn’t

a curse carved in stone—

it’s simply the magic

of losing your own.

When she shows an interest,

you’re swept in the spin—

a marvelous mayhem

where troubles begin…

But oh, what a chaos

to gladly be in.

 

II. The Contest of the Unnoticed

It always begins with a flutter of fans,

a whisper of perfume, a rustle of plans—

for one woman’s interest is trouble enough,

but several at once? Oh, that’s serious stuff.

They spot you existing—

just breathing, that’s all—

no posing, no preening,

just minding your call.

And somehow your silence,

your calm, your “meh, who?”

becomes the very spark

that ignites their whole coup.

The first tries a smile

that could warm northern snows,

the second adjusts

what the first never shows,

the third, in a flourish,

pretends not to care…

while absolutely caring

with all of her flair.

They circle like comets

around your still sun,

each plotting a moment

to out-charm the one.

They laugh just a little

too bright, too aware—

a musical duel

waged in shimmering air.

And you, quite unbothered,

just walk with your stride,

your thoughts on your goals

or your peace deep inside.

You’ve better things brewing,

more meaningful schemes—

their dances and glances

don’t enter your dreams.

But this—oh, this!—

is the charm of the scene:

your total indifference

makes you ever more keen.

For nothing’s so tempting,

so sweetly insane,

as someone immune

to their whole grand campaign.

So onward they escalate—

step, flourish, and spin…

a whimsical war

where none means to win.

While you stay detached,

half lost in your mind—

which somehow, to them,

is the rarest of kind.

And though you don’t notice

their shimmering art,

they’re drawn even deeper

to your quiet-heart spark.

For some are sought after,

but you—without trying—

are chased by a chorus

of whims multiplying.

And trouble, delightful,

begins once again…

when you don’t even see

what you effortlessly pen.

 

III. The Chorus of the Unseen

We see him—

calm as starlight,

walking past our painted storms,

his eyes fixed on some quiet dream

we cannot name

but desperately wish to join.

And suddenly we

become performers

in a play he doesn’t watch.

“Did he glance at you?”

whispers one,

fluffing her hair like a bright banner.

“No, but he heard my laugh,”

claims another,

tuning her voice like a silver harp.

A third just smirks,

adjusts her dress,

and steps lightly

as though the floor itself

should applaud.

We orbit him—

three moons waging tidal wars,

each trying to pull

his attention

one inch, one breath,

one heartbeat closer.

But he strolls on,

thoughtful and distant,

as if his mind is a constellation

we cannot reach.

Oh, how maddening—

and how magnetic.

We try subtlety first—

a glance, a glow,

a brush of perfume in his path.

He misses all of it

like a monk avoiding temptation

out of sheer habit.

So we heighten our charms,

unfurling ourselves

like competing blossoms:

one offers wit like a sword,

another warmth like a hearth,

another mystery like a dusk-tide riddle.

Still—

nothing.

His indifference

is its own kind of gravity,

pulling us in

even as he drifts

further away.

And there, in that space

between our bravado

and his oblivion,

we share a secret truth:

We don’t want just his eyes—

we want his wonder.

We want to be the thing

that interrupts his inner world,

the spark that detours

those distant thoughts.

So we keep competing,

laughing, dancing,

shining a little brighter,

because somehow

his absence of noticing

makes him feel

impossibly rare.

And we, in turn,

become ardent constellations—

each of us

hoping to be the star

he finally decides

to name.