outsider


Yesterday the city of Madrid dazzled and shone and impressed me endlessly with its character and culture. There was beauty in excess and I felt as if I was skipping from café to café, and at each I would rest to cool down with beer. There I’d drink in the sights and sounds of the alleyways and streets whilst imagining fantastical events.
Then, today, having spoken to my parents for one hour through which my mother cried, I went back into the city and it seemed dull and empty. The people seemed slow and ugly and rude. I felt they were staring at my flip flops and were repulsed by the very sight of me.
Yesterday I felt athletic and handsome.
Today I felt fat, ugly, and old. I started to lose my voice again… it must be an anxiety thing.

Wherever it is that I may roam on this planet it seems that I am not quite able to join in on a comfortable scale. I feel like the outsider everywhere and I feel like I am lost. Forever alone and uncomfortable in my own skin. Once more, however, I am saved by literature. The book I am reading: Coming Up For Air by George Orwell seems almost as if it was written about me in my current state. And yet I feel somewhat envious of the fact that, at the very least, the characters in the book can understand the protagonist. No one can understand me.

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