There was a time when I would feel bad for those who were a little off-center, not wrapped real tight, as they say. They were different than us and so they were treated differently. Sometimes it wasn’t much that set them apart, but for whatever reason, it was obvious.
Many times, I thought it was me. I wasn’t thinking like everyone around me. Things that were important to them, I didn’t care about at all. They were excited about and getting involved with sports, while I found it to be rather stupid. Basketball players running up and down the gym floor, bouncing a ball and tossing it into a hoop. Sorry, but why? What’s the point?
I could see some of the attraction of golf. They got to be outside, walking around on nicely trimmed lawns, enjoying the day. Hitting a ball with a stick and then chasing it… I don’t think so. We part company when it comes to that.
My tendencies leaned more towards art and photography. Those I enjoyed greatly, as did I enjoy live stage plays. I found those to be the most fun.
So,
with those things in my backpack, I didn’t think I was too much of an
outcast. And yet, when I compare my
writing to today’s literature, once again I see myself as an outsider. I am the one off-center. And the more I read
the things I’ve written and the subject matter I’ve chosen to write about, like
hall passes in the afterlife and conversations with a petri dish, the more I
think that maybe I should run for Mayor.
ZC
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