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Archive for November, 2012

On the road

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Outsiders

Have you met an outsider?

Have you seen that fidgety teenager over there, hair awry, hands bruised on guitar strings, locked in a room?

Have you met a crazed stare on the street?

Have you cringed at the irresponsibility,  have  you marvelled at the freedom?

Have you seen mismatched socks and a free maniacal smile to go along with?

Have you been proved wrong by a perspective you thought never existed?

Have you hated and loved an Outsider?

 

I have. Since my wee tee days.

I have felt it bubbling along in me. Like a ball of vomit pushing itself through.

I have felt my esophagus ripped, and a madness screeching out, when girls discussed boys and lipstick n school.

I have felt it, the burning, when the world mocked. I have burnt inside.

I was foolish. I still am sometimes. (We are the breed of fools)

I had wanted to belong, when my belongings belonged outside.

Late in my youth, it dawned, I am an Outsider.

 

Today, I am writing to tell you normal people, to not accept us. I am tired of the touch-n-go game. Let us be, we’ll manage.

Today, I tell you, let us burn, let us be. It’s going to be hard. But, what’s not?

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” 
― Jack Kerouac, On The Road

The world is different for us. Thank your stars. We give you magic in your stale normalcy. Yes, we colour our hair electric pink and trip on acid and drugs. Yes, we come home at unearthly hours or not at all. You don’t understand us, but we’re working for the better. We feel a lot more, we’re often in pain. We’ve removed the bridles from our mouths, the blinkers from our eyes. We’re pained because we are at the door of the infinite. The four walls do not contain us. A page and canvas are not enough. Drive us to the corners if you will, but leave us there, let us breathe. Next time you discuss lipstick, you may try not to mock the girl drowned in a Dostoevsky. Yes, that much, you can do. Don’t make us pay the price for not being you. It’s not a choice. It’s fate.

We like it this way. We’re Odd. We’re the Outsiders.

Wait till we change the world for you.

 

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