Something Like a Chameleon
Of course, my relationship with people is quite different. In all honesty there are very few people with whom I feel comfortable, very few instances in which I feel that the people around me are congruous, or counterbalanced, or complementary to myself. Most of the time I feel alien, apart from other people. This, of course, is when I break out the wallflower version of myself, or even worse, the socializing version of myself.
Imagine, if you will, a documentary narrative running through your head every time you find yourself in a group larger than four or so people. When I wallflower, at least I get to be that narrative. Everything I hear and see I may register where I will, observing natural people in their normal environment from my quiet little corner. When I socialize, however, the narrative keeps running, and I become subject. The narrative, of course, knows that I fake, that I play at being a real person, and hearing it run through my head I struggle against the urge to tense inside and retreat.
Maybe? Maybe not? I have noticed, as of late, that I have a bit of a knack for blending in. Not wallflowery, disappearing blending in, although I think I do a fair bit of that, but the inconspicuous, seeming like I should to be precisely where I am sort of blending in. Perhaps I give myself too much credit, but I cannot remember, ever, feeling as though I had stepped into the wrong space.
I do not know what or why this feeling is. In every city, on every continent, I feel as though I have never moved, as though the thousands of kilometres were nothing more than a change in scenery, a faint wash on the foreground of my life. Nothing moves around me, you see, only inside me. There are worlds inside me.
