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Shadows

October 24, 2012

I wrote this and then later realized that it’s the best I’ve done at externalizing my own psyche. I realized that the “he” is entirely me and if I had to describe my biggest anxiety in 500 words or less, it would be this.

 

He sits as if in the shadows. The people keep busy and talk, and talk, and talk about nothing and many things. But he struggles to understand.

And he is set apart. Pitied or looked down upon or both.

What to say for a brief conversation about nothing in particular? He struggles to find.

How does one talk to a near or complete stranger if talking is not how one learns?

He is content watching and listening to the sounds of the stale underbelly of something not quite ready to be revealed. Like a bird ignoring it’s wings so it can run with the squirrels.

There is a constant second guessing, wishing he had the words, the ability to relate quickly at the snap of a finger, like a salesman. He was once a salesman who did not make many sales, but many good conversations with old ladies and happy house wives.

The drive to break through grows like a plant within a seed. His body is the seed, but how does the plant grow if the seed is always intact? There is something more, something else we should be talking about, thinking about, he says, but no one hears him because he mumbles.

Like an alien, exposed to a group of strangers, he goes along with them, to find what drives them, to understand them, like they are him and he is them, because they are him and he is them.

So why the disconnect? And why does he not sense the same drive from others?

Peace. He must find peace and joy, which he does, but it is often buried underneath the sawdust of the lumber mill inside their minds. His mind too.

They are him and he is them.

But they are different. He is different.

That is why he wants so badly to connect with them, but while remaining within himself. He cannot lose himself. If he loses himself, he loses them, and his love for what they and he are and is and longs to be.

He longs to be them – sometimes.

He sees people with calloused skin. His skin is young, hardly scathed and soft, but his mind and his bones are old and creaking.

The floor creaks underneath his feet, with every touch of his soul or his sole. The wood, is soft with much give and he feels extremely unstable. Every step he feels is an insult to those who don’t walk like him. He is gentle. And he must follow because later he might have to lead. Later, when he figures out how to grow, seed intact, but probably scarred.

Because they are him and he is them and they and he are all different.

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