Bookmark #800

In many ways, my life has been one of rebellion. Not because I was fighting for anything significant but because I was always out of step, always out of the norm, always out on my own road. And this has led to many joys, I reckon, and a few aches, which stick out in the grand timeline like pins on a cushion. Primarily, though, it has caused a displacement for me—not a physical one, not yet, at least—but a cultural, personal one. If someone carries with them a modicum of commonality with people wherever they are but never enough to truly belong, would you call them an outcast, still? Or would they be, as they call it, a chameleon? I do not know. It is not as if I put on a disguise. Merely, it so happens that I find something in common with everyone, and if nothing else remains, I still find it curious that two people can have nothing in common, and yet, it remains that both of them are people.

As I sit here like usual, the sun has begun to claim the grass as its own, slowly increasing the territory and causing a divide. It is all grass still, but a line is drawn now. It is funny how much conflict a single line can raise. Perhaps the world was once a simple place, and then, we started calling things by words. There is always something common. In my experience, it is always easy to find, too. But I often find this favour is not returned in kind. Rarely do people I so desperately look for things in common with say something that bolsters my confidence in my belonging around them. I let most people waltz through my life—in and out like extras in a play. In the end, I only find quiet comfort in the little things, but I wish, with all my heart, to have a place where I could be myself, a hundred per cent, not even a smidge hidden behind a coy smile or remark.

If I were to lay the truth down, it has been a while since I even tried. Parts of me are all most people get, and often, it is much more than what they deserve. At least, that is what I tell myself to justify the habitual hesitation I feel when I get the space to expand. I reckon that is another thing I have in common with others, then. I often tire of being myself as, I imagine, most people do now and then.

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