I “don’t belong” to this place, and it doesn’t recognize my existence. Or rather… it doesn’t pay heed to my life and my experience. There are people in this place that look like they are being acknowledged and respected. It was designed for them somehow. They are among their peers and they engage in all the distractions of this place without any fear of getting lost, caught, or facing any retribution for doing being something they shouldn’t.
This is supposed to be home. Mountains and lakes, frosted winters and scorching summers. It can be really pretty on the days when you can see the sky. A particular group founded this place, religious in name but now capitalist in nature. These folks tried to raise me, but I didn’t drink their kool-aid. Now I am a constant reminder of their failure, that it doesn’t always work the way they planned. They tolerate my presence, but they will not welcome me unless I repent, put on my “Sunday best,” and conform. Oh, and change my gender back.
I used to think that I was not intended for this place and either arrived incredibly late or far too early. I’ve met other people who told me they felt the same. I’ve lost track of those people, maybe they all left. Very few of the people around me now think of this place as truly not for them. They might not like all the rules and may not engage in all of the distractions it has to offer, yet my perception of them is that they still fit in here
Is this a masturbatory game I play with myself? “I’m not a sheep, I’m a fox!”
Or maybe, “I am a sheep, but I’m like a really soft and fluffy sheep … I deserve something more out of this place than the other sheep do!”
I have pondered why I belong somewhere that doesn’t exist, or how I might find the right place if I look harder. I’ve spent years in the realms of the fictional and fantastical. Perhaps I’ve lost the skill to attune my function here, to live happy and content. There are many people here that I love, maybe it is how I have lasted so long. And yet the skills I would require to fit in have not developed.
Other times I think about how I am out of place intentionally. I could be early, too advanced to be among these people. Or am I too late, a lone survivor of rational and progressive mind, inhabiting a world of decay? I think I am here to spot the cracks. Perhaps to tell the right people about them, allow them to make repairs. It’s quite doubtful I was sent here by other forces, a mathematical universe churning out would-be heroes ASAP hoping for someone to stem the tide of corruption. This also feels masturbatory.
I’m torn between pride at not fitting in, and despair over not fitting in.
It would be an easy explanation if I were special. There would be no need for fitting in; I was not intended to be accepted. But I want growing up in a prison of my own body to mean something.
I’m perfectly out of place here. I guess I’ll pour myself another drink.
— Written to the following musical mix. —