(no subject)
In the grand scheme of normality, I am not, nor are my friends, it. We have changed ourselves in to the roadside attractions of life’s less traveled route 65. This is all well and good until we have to explain ourselves, until that one person that bothered to stop wants to stay and we are now obligated to tell the long version of our tale that very few have heard. The fatal flaw in this is the story itself cannot be told in a language that can be understood by an average passer by; in fact it can only barely be translated into something vaguely resembling English by those closest to us, and is still not fit for human consumption. We cannot express, we can only stand there babbling in our own way and hope that some part of it makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense to us. At first glance this may not seem like something so serious, but the fact of the matter is that it’s very serious. I can’t effectively explain myself to someone else, even the people I care about and the people I love can’t share in this place, I just need them to except that I am far more intangible then my body suggests and I do not leave for fear of interaction or lack of interest but because this far off land is my home. No matter how hard I try I am alone, because the words escape me, the goddamn words escape me. This is our trial and it’s far too easy for us to hang ourselves for the want of another with a sympathetic ear and an open mind.