The thing about being conspicuous is hardly ever a good thing. The harsh reality of being Andre the Giant was fitting into an automobile. Functioning within a normal sized kitchen or simply passing through a doorway.
Knowing that when you finally do locate shoes that fit, you’re going to pay more than twice as much as those buying normal sized footwear. Being constantly stared at had to be more than annoying.
At the far end of the scale are those much less conspicuous. The people who appear normal on the outside but struggle to fit in mentally, socially or lack basic communication skills.
Somewhere in the
middle live the poets. The ones who pass
through observing and commenting, spouting their opinions in rhyme or
verse. Offering only momentary
diversions from the hum of humanity.
Their footprints are ink stains, occasional blots to be interpreted by
musicians and politicians. Never in the headlines,
it is life below the fold, out of the spotlight but always within earshot.
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