outside looking in

I'm sure you know the feeling. You know, that tiny creep at the back of your neck and in the space between your spine that speaks not about who you are, but where you are. Time. Space. Place. There's a scene happening; many scenes and many happenings all about and around. There's alot of activity and there you are plugging away- fulfilling your role and responsibility in the grand cosmic plan of "doing things." And you are busy; time flies and energy is expended. A lot of it actually. And you smile and grin and talk and plan and you can even laugh and make sense.

But you're not plugged in. Not really. Like you are set apart: part of whole deal, but not really part of it. Its like being caught in some strange Agatha Christie novel- unwantingly. And you wonder if there's even such a word. Is there? Maybe. Maybe not- but there is in your world.

You are on the outside. Staring in. Staring about. And yet strangely, people think you're part of the happening. Part of the daily maisma that pervades, partakes and perseveres. Lit students call that an alliteration. You call it your daily grind. You huff, you puff and you build and blow the houses up and down. You race, you rock and speed up and slow down all at the same time.

Nothing makes sense. Everything makes sense.

And you are on the outside looking in. At you.
Senselessly plugging away. Withering. Prentending.
Staring- sometimes blindly. Sometimes at You, staring from the outside.
Looking in.