Jigglypuff
You must wonder, when you put such effort into your art, if those who are made privy to it enjoy it.
We are such a proud race. From such a young age, we are taught that each of us is a star; that each one of us has been given the power to shift the axis of the world with our voices.
We swagger through the forest, convinced our song is the only one others would ever want to hear-- convinced that all eyes will one day turn upon us, and that the greatest performance of our life shall be given in that most opportune of moments.
As a child, our mothers listen to our voices, praising us as we sing to the sky. They coach us in the early mornings, telling our voices to go higher, to crescendo, to tremble that much more in the dew of the coming day.
At night, we would gather together under the circle of white, and as the pokemon of the forest settled into their nests and dens, we would bid the day farewell with our songs of sleep, foretelling the presence of a fresh, new morning, in which we may revel in the beauty that is life.
But there is a hard truth we each learn.
They do not tell you that there are those who want nothing of your song. Want nothing more than for your disappearance.
Some will shoo you away, and as much as you try to share your gift with them, they merely turn and leave.
And then there are those who listen. They are the kindest. They sit with a face of wonder.
But the wonder always disappears, to be replaced with that of sleep-- the unemotional, uninterested face of unconsciousness.
There is always a point at which we realize no one is listening. At these times our people may shift to sing of loneliness, the words our mothers taught us escaping in perfect pitch, staggered only by the tears through which they are freed.
One must wonder why we sing, when no one will listen. What is the point of starting a song no one will ever hear you finish?
But we must remember that the songs are not for others. The songs are us—our families, our friends, our feelings and traditions. They are what we know, and what we lack knowledge of. They are the past and present; they tell stories and weave musical pictures of love and sadness.
And so it is that we do not define our music by the critique of others, for that is not what our music is for. Indeed, there will be times in which we put the whole of ourselves under the weight of the opinions of others, but in the end there will always be the pull of a song to sing, a feeling to convey, a picture to paint with the words of our fathers and mothers.
So it is that our race continues to thrive in the ways of the past, passing down the music and ideals of our forefathers.
Continuing to sing, though none may listen.
IDK...
RainbowMunchies
P.S. I don't own Pokemon