I'll nag like an old woman. I miss the wondrous. I miss that which gives my life meaning. Save for the daily routine which keeps me busy, and the thingies which keep me pleasantly occupied. My heart needs to flutter. My eyes have to see something bewitching, or they feel empty.
I am that which people abhor. I scare them. I make them feel uncomfortable. And all I do is be myself. All I do is make jokes. Forget to keep my mouth shut in front of strangers. They smell I am different and react accordingly. They smell the thing inside me and become hostile. For mine is a dragon, a glorious beast of terrifying beauty, or a curled, sleek feline, and theirs a mole, or a pig. And they squeal as such. They run or bare their teeth as such. And the dragon inside me or the big cat turns its back and leaves, too haughty to even snarl.
The people in the store. The waiter in the bar. The customers at the kiosk. They seem to somehow smell it, and just how fast they do nowadays. They needed longer in the past. Now they feel it immediately. I can bend them all to my will and crash them like little men of clay, but why even bother? This is not my way. I can't even bear them around me for too long. I just want to retreat somewhere far away, and write, and read, and only converse with those worthy of my voice and time. I know this sounds wrong and I don't care. I don't need to explain anything to anybody. I need only listen. See what needs to be killed. Inside me. Bring forth the cleansing fire and the blade, and cut clean. I'll take it.
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