Aren't We All?

Her name is Jasmine, this former femme fatale who, only ten years ago was said to resemble Rita Hayworth in her prime. But now, her youthful beauty has withered like that of a wilted flower. Oh, she still has that elegance and an attractiveness , but it's the attractiveness of middle age. Thus, she must rely on raw ambition and the knowledge she has gleaned from books to survive. Yes, she has stepped out of "The Game", remade herself, and begun her climb. But luck is on her side. Because Jasmine at least, is no longer numbered among the millions in America... And for her, those sounds- the cacophony of voices desperate and forlorn, the clang of metal upon metal, all belong to the past to that era she has gratefully left behind. And the "lady" bears her memories of devastation and degradation with stoic grace, seemingly they haven't exacted such a heavy toll, and her genteel speech and fashionable clothing don't betray the secrets of those dark chapters of a not so distant past. Now, she even rubs elbows with those of the higher social echelons and is regarded by them as peer and equal, as she chats amicably with executives and charms academics with her wit. Yes, she is becoming mainstream, mingling unsuspected with the kind she once regarded with scorn, members of the "uppity" establishment. But sometimes does the street still show in her eyes? And does she emit an aura of a strange netherworld populated only by the damned? And she wonders if the wings of a Phoenix rising still show smudges of the ash heap? She asks also, "Who am I" ? Weird conglomeration? Enigmatic paradox? But then, isn't the answer- Aren't we all?