We all know that person; the one who stood out in the crowd because
he just didn't belong. I don't understand his tribe. Their language is vague and
offensive, their mannerisms are awkward and alarming and their nervous energy
is far from charming. They always smile when they see you, but they mayn’t see
you at all. They may walk right past you as though possessed by a far more
interesting phenomenon. They may talk to themselves or not talk at all. They
won’t look you in the eye too long since they are guarding the secrets of their
inconsequential existence. Their lives are grainy pictures. Some of them- we
call artists, some of them- stars, the rest of them-we couldn't care less who
they are.
I would tell you the story of these invisible people, but they
matter too little. The best stories are the ones that are about you- where you
can identify with the trials and tribulations of the protagonist. These people
are little more than whispers in the woods and shadows on the wall that fill
the trivial seconds of transition between the monumental moments of our lives. If
you had the opportunity to know this awkward breed I don’t know if you’ll like
what you get. It’s disturbing how they compare disappointment to a
blood-stained reflection in a shattered mirror. As you appreciate a glorious
sunrise, they see the hazy silhouette of the inevitable sunset. They suggest
that the shadow of death is our only constant companion. They know they invite
judgment and yet they persist.
I hope that you have figured out by now that I’m not talking about
serial killers, individuals with a penchant for biting off bat-heads or any Emo
boy or girl. The twisted lead far less glamorous lives. Is it a quest for a
non-existent spotlight that drives these people? Do they revel in the ostracization
that they receive- sometimes mild sometimes unkind? Maybe it’s both of the
above. Maybe it’s neither. It’s a little disconcerting, but no-one will lose
any sleep over it.
Have you had a belief so strong that it caused you physical pain
if you tried to contain it too long, a dream that was so vivid in your head
that words and sketches could never do justice, and that made you feel like you
would implode if you didn’t shape it into reality? The twisted live their lives
constantly experiencing this overwhelming emotion giving them their nervous
energy. They see the same world that we do, but they see it differently. They are
consumed by their vices as much as we are consumed by our virtues. They know
they may never belong, but many will try all the same. An average life is a miserable
life, no doubt. But the life of the twisted is painful, beautiful, enriching and
impoverishing all at once. It’s a living contradiction.
Of course I have no way
of knowing this. Or do I?
