I flipped the pages but my words were nowhere to be found. Desperate, but true. I gaze though the window at the leaves outside, falling each time the breeze comes by. I pictured myself having some sort of epiphany as I stared into nothingness, but no, it doesn’t work that way.

Still, I continue to indulge in my narcissism, trying as best I can to look intelligent and wise. I’m thinking, maybe if I can impress them just a little bit, they’d accept me. The concept of people accepting a person for who he or she is on the inside is one that is foreign to me. I have no such faith in matters like these and I probably never will.

I take another sip of my stale, precipitating coffee and pick up my silver a-little-too-shiny pen and take to the pages once again. I’m lost and left with no sense of where I’m going, or where I’m suppose to begin, much less where I’m suppose to go.

Another sip. You’d think by now I would be used to that vintage, bitter taste that lingers in my mouth, but no.

I walk the path less traveled. I live and breathe thoughts that are born of perceptions that most would find conflicting with today’s social standards, or norm, so to speak. Over the years I’ve studied them. I have now the ability to be as one of them. To talk and walk like them, yet, sometimes I fall into isolation because it is only every other day that life overwhelms me and has me in the middle of things.

It is these situations that create more disturbing thoughts in my troubled mind. It is tiring enough trying to be as one of them yet, I frequently wonder why (and how) I so very often find myself tangled in the affairs of these ‘people’. Why am I the one who has to be responsible for their actions and consequences?

I am by no means perfect but perhaps, the answer lies within me having picked up enough clues on how the gears come together and being able to connect the dots of whatever makes them tick the way they do.

Truth? The truth is I’m lonely. I am trapped in this sunken ship with my own thoughts that are often unthinkable to anyone else. They would not even consider them as thoughts. My perceptions are often my own and my thoughts are my only best friends. I am surrounded by willing listeners but no one really hears me when I speak. I’m a wanderer in these lands and from where I’m standing, it seems like this is how it’s going to be, at least, for a long time to come, if not for good.

They’re outside, looking in and here I sit, sipping my coffee, pretending to be a better version of you but really, I’m just a shadow of whoever.


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