On strangers

I don’t like strangers. I just don’t. It’s not the individuals I don’t like, but rather strangers as a class. All these extraverts, or faux-extraverts, or whatever, I watch them together, socializing in large groups, and think about how ridiculous they look. All trying to be heard, to impress one another, to appear so cool and together and totally rad and unique but relevant to the rest and happy and outgoing and personable, as though this is all they are, these are their complete selves—they wear their so-called complexities like a badge, or as a badge, in their clothes, their hair, their tattoos. They are all so DIY and yet there is more than a hint of a uniform, a standard, and the better you match it, the more acceptable you are.

They all want, somewhere inside of them, to know difference, difference within themselves and among others, and yet they cling to their own kind.

Which, I suppose, I cannot really criticize, because I crave my “own kind” all the time—rather I crave figuring out just what that is and finding it. I say to myself that I wouldn’t always stay in my group if I had one, I would still venture among difference—often alienating and isolating—as I am forced to do now, but let’s face it, I am as weak as everyone else, no doubt I would rarely if ever leave, not as long as it was still a novelty, or for fear of being lost, both of which might never go away.


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