other.

Photo by Evandro Saroka on Unsplash

I am a pilot — trapped within the prison of my own body;
Never to leave;
And as I am the only voice in my head, I find myself
often feeling or thinking as if I am the only one in the world

a weird, wonderful, dangerous place. The world is what
you make of it, but there are other people, and they are all trying
to make it for them, too. And as we walk by
say “Hey! How are you?”
on the streets and in the hallways
We keep on walking and never stop to wonder how
the other person is feeling.

Other: it sounds so strange, so cruel, so distant,
but isn’t everybody the ‘other’ but yourself in your own body?
I can not speak for the experience of anyone but myself
for they are all other to me, because no other person,
no other voice has ever piloted this body.

I lie, of course, because that’s what I do;
I lie because it is easier than to tell the truth
because the truth hurts and I don’t want to hurt anybody again.
Of course there have been other voices.

Some days,
I feel like a burden; an obligation; a liability
for I create as many problems as I think I solve.

Many days,
I feel tired, distant, alone
as if the world is nobody but me, or, perhaps
the world is everybody but me
for I have always been the weirdo, the outcast, the different
the other.

Maybe that’s just the way it is,
that some will be popular, accepted, included,
and others — others are just destined to walk the path alone,
because no one else will walk with them.