Fringe

I feel as though I am best described as a drifter. Something that is airy, almost intangible in nature. Though I am tangible, especially in the area of the thighs and the circumference of my arms, there is a large sense of misbalance between reality and what should be real.

No one talks to me; I make no effort to talk to them. The only interaction I have with other humans would be when I take time to observe them. Everyone is so different, from me, and even each other. The struggles, the pain, and the hand we are all dealt in life all evident in the slump of the girl’s shoulders or the overly excited faux gleam in the most congenial boy’s eyes. Normal has many definitions.

What other people see is a person, maybe they don’t even see me at all anymore. Maybe I have actually pixilated to the realm I want to reside in, the land of stories I am constantly planning, the poetry constantly rhyming to the beats of teenage angst and a rage kept silent. I’m perfectly fine sitting here alone, pretending to be doing something of importance while I people-watch.

To be honest, I’m jubilant towards the fact society doesn’t accept me.

Because I do not want to be part of a society that pickets the funerals of children gone too soon, where cocaine possession warrants more time in jail than the heinous act of rape itself, I do not wish to be a part of the force that drives young people to kill themselves. A society that is more moved by an animal dying than a person dying is no place for me to be. So I’ll sit on the fringes of reality and take the position of spectator as the beautiful, but oh-so-corrupted world continues to turn on the axis.

Excuse me for not being normal.