HIDDEN

I like to think of myself as hidden. Gliding through life, hidden in plain sight. Not true of course, but I like to think it nonetheless. It comforts me. If I’m inconspicuous, then it’s not like people don’t care, they just don’t see me. Hence, it’s not their fault. I should try a little harder. Be better. Louder, but not so loud it grates on their nerves. I’m not looking to make them hate me now, am I?
Unfortunately though, I’m not hidden. I’m just distorted. Partly by my defence mechanisms, mostly by people’s expectations. Now they see me, yet they don’t. I’m coloured by their perceptions of the norm, my voice is shrill strained by the fight to be heard above their well practiced choruses, I’m rendered fragile, weakened by their definitions of strength, I’m shrunk by their incessant badgering.
I’ve compromised so much, I’ve lost myself. But that’s not the tragedy. You see, I was looking to lose myself in the crowd, but the crowd isolates me. I want to walk alone but I wish they wouldn’t stare so hard. This hostile crowd, if only they could see me, really see me. Stripped of the grime with which they coated me, free of all the pretensions with which I mask what’s left of me. Bare, nude. But that’s asking for too much, isn’t it? Everyone dresses up for the crowd. Why court even more disdain by traipsing about naked? So, I walk alone, isolated yet surrounded and I think of myself as inconspicuous, protected by the blanket of invisibility from their prying, judging, unforgiving eyes. Hidden.

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