Most of the time, it doesn’t matter whether I’m with ten people or a hundred, I still feel disconnected somehow, as if there’s a thick glass box between us.
It takes time for their messages to reach me and by then they’ve moved on, and my words bubble into the empty space around me.
I slouch against the hard wall of my box and wait for the event to be over, frustrated with my inability to change the fact that everything is happening without me, but the truth is, people are exhausting and I’m too tired to care. Even if I could get out, I’m not sure that I would.
Despite the fact that I curse the glass for making me miss out on things that seem to make others so happy, I’m grateful for its presence, too, because in exchange for my isolation it offers protection. Inside its walls, I cannot make a fool of myself, and I don’t have to worry about getting hurt.
Occasionally a passerby will tap on my glass and try to break through to me, but I wave and smile, pretend I’m fine so they walk by to meet someone who is actually here.
A Rambler In Bloom
A Rambler In Bloom 