johnny-come-lately

Have you ever stood in a crowd of people listening intently to a joke and when the punchline came you didn't get it? Behind your forced laughter you desperately hope no one notices how artificial it is. Or perhaps you arrive to a party and find that your frock is so last year. Maybe the people are too nice to say but you see their sly glances and the mocking comments made not quite in sotto voce.

I am not one to swim upstream. No, I'm more the type who hops out of the water and bushwhacks up the bank. Unfortunately, sitting on the edge of the river croaking (pun intended) is not the most comfortable place. It's nice to be one of the crowd, to have the Dufflepuds surround you with hearty agreement.

History exalts the very people who pioneer, who refuse to stop thinking in the face of mass stupidity, and who persevere when everyone else goes home. What history neglects to elucidate are the long days and nights when those trend-setters trudge wearily back to their home, barely fighting off the mounds of discouragement that build after yet another set-back, yet another chorus of nay-sayers, and yet another day without seeing dreams come true. History is mum on the dreamers who never made it; who, with the stars struck from their eyes, submitted to the burden of conformity and let others realize their ideas.

I've stood in that crowd of people whose eyes quickly glaze over as they cannot understand the passion that burns within another person. I've been called too intense, intimidating, just plain wrong. I must learn from my mistakes, yes as all must, but to not go gently into that great night. I must also accept that being present and stepping forward lacks the clarity of hindsight.

There are measures of success and there are books in which my name must be and others that matter not beyond this life of striving breaths. The types are not mutually exclusive but neither are they necessarily inclusive.

I don't fit. I never have. At times I do belong. Other times, not so much. Ofttimes I am suspended between wonder and stupefaction at the antics of my "fellow" humans, as if I were an alien. Standing on this stage of life and finding the script in my hand doesn't match those around me. My lines are off, I came in at the wrong cue, and I'm forever losing my place.

In my charade of confidence my favorite prop is semantics and my heart thrills when I meet with another soul who cherishes the nuance of a exquisite turn of phrase. They do exist, other ones climbing the bank at my side and I am eternally thankful when a good conversation reminds me.