Autobiography Of A Doormat

I don't like this title one bit. I refuse to accept that I am a doormat. I was a tapestry (What am I saying! Not was; I am still a tapestry) and used to adorn the wall. I was used to being admired. Sure there were critiques as well, but I accepted those gladly (and sometimes not so gladly, I must admit). I was aware that not many would like my bright and bold colors; I knew that in some places I was beginning to get frayed. But I accepted it all; the bouquets and the brickbats. You might even call me vain; after all, I used to hang opposite the mirror. It gave me ample opportunity to preen all day long! But the mirror also showed me my flaws and kept me grounded (or should I say walled?).

I never realized why I was taken off from the wall and slammed in front of the door one day. Or maybe the process had already started, but I didn't want to accept it. I should have realized it when the brickbats began to outnumber the bouquets. Or when I was being taken for granted, it was almost as if it didn't matter whether I hung on the wall or not. Who was I kidding; I should have known I am not irreplaceable. The wall might stay empty for a few days after I was taken down, but it wouldn't take long for a painting or another tapestry to fill the gap again.

Sometimes I wonder if this is just a temporary phase or the beginning of the end. It hurts me physically when I am trampled upon; it hurts me mentally when I see all the dust and grime on me. Even if I am given a breather and sent to the cleaners once in a while, there's always this nagging feeling at the back of my head that the dust is going to be back again. I worry that if this continues I am going to forget all about the old days. Right now, I am still able to shake off the dust. But if things don't change, how long can I continue dusting myself and hope that I will be back on the wall?