I’m always being berated for what I look like. It isn’t necessarily my natural–or lack-there-of–beauty that gets me the good seats on the scenes of public hangings.
The way I dress, the way I act, the way I talk, is viewed as offensive. It does not match up with the structured norm, and is an embarrassment when displayed for others to see. And all too often, I go rogue, sometimes defeating even the lowest expectations of me and setting a new standard for the rock bottom of near sanity.
This isn’t a sob story. This is an explanation for a puzzled majority of some of the thoughts of my minority.
We don’t want to be the paupers who scramble to convince the world that they are princes, and we don’t want to be the princes who attempt to create an illusion of modesty when so often there is no higher hubris than their own. We are the players that do not make legitimized contenders. We observe. We find odd ways to make our marks in history, and interestingly enough, it is more often that one of us gains true recognition in a world that sees us as outlandish. It may sometimes be negative recognition, but recognition all the same.
Better to be a dark mark on a permanent record than a dull shade of gray, and I have never known anyone who marches to the beat of their own drum to step back in line for perfect harmony.
Unless they are afraid.
And unfortunately, that fear isn’t rare.
I wish I could change it, but I am not an activist. I am an ear and a pen, and that is all there is. There isn’t any more.