Disconnected 

“Stop being so dramatic,” you always say. But I don’t remember how to live any other way but with the volume turned all the way up when you’re around. When I’m alone I keep everything on mute. I read the captions in funny voices in my head. I go places and make up stories and dialogues for people. I pretend to know what they’re feeling and where they’re going. And pretend not to notice the disappointment wash over their eyes when they think the other person is no longer watching. I’ve discovered the park is one of the few raw place left in the world. And even that is becoming over run with mothers determined to outdo other mothers with their “I am having more fun than you” selfies. Even the hooker on the corner has upped her advertisement game with her peace sign duck face. And I sit laughing.

Dramatically.

Because *I* am the abnormal one. With my pen and my paper in my hand. Watching the world. As they are so very connected to one another, yet have not one shred of a clue of the people right next to them.

The rain begins. It is now that you discover who is truly disconnected. For it is we who spread out for the rain to touch all surfaces of us while the rest of the world runs and hides, afraid of getting wet.
Photo by Girts Gailans

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