In Their Shoes: Know My Story

I was seated on white sand, on a beach far from home, with people I did not know, whose language I did not speak, writing poetry I did not understand.

A simple, humorous, relaxed period of my life.

The sounds around me, of the people, the sea, the sky, all melded into a protective cocoon.

The thoughts in my head and the roll of my pen.

Click.

It is often a surprise to people that my tastes lie in literature and music; often the only side of me they see is the fitness-freak teen, the blonde-haired, spotty-faced sixteen year old child obsessed with status, girls, and maybe video games or something equally mind-numbing, who almost certainly smokes cigarettes and probably does drugs too and who wouldn’t be caught dead reading anything but a porn magazine, if anything.

Right?

Well, I can’t say that I don’t know where they’re coming from; nor could I truthfully say that I’m unaware that the majority of them don’t care or don’t mind provided I don’t bother them.

It’s just that it feels imbalanced, unsteady; like an unattended tower of cream- and syrup-topped pancakes slowly, ever so slowly tipping to one side, slipping farther each second, until they succumb to gravity, flying free for a brief moment before flopping limply onto the tiled kitchen floor; thlop.

Glamorous.

It’s not like I expect people to see me and want to approach me; not even that if I approach them they’re automatically going to like me.

I just wish I could be judged for what I am, what I have inside, instead of by the amount, style, colours and size of the clothing I wear.

I mean, even though I put some effort into my appearance I spend all of it trying to wear stuff that will help people see me for me, colours and materials that reflect how I see myself so that the people around me can see it for themselves.

Naturally, it’s not very effective, as people just see something different to the normal and immediately label it ‘strange’, regardless of how they feel about ‘strange’ things or their attitudes towards them; a never-ending battle, it really is.

“Sorry”.

I really am.

Author's Note

This is something I wrote while on holiday in France a few years ago, my only trip to Europe so far. I was on a beach, surrounded by kids my own age, most playing around and having fun.
There were a fair number though who appeared to be just sitting and staring off into space, caught up in some reflection or internal struggle only they could hear.
I wrote this in an attempt to put myself in their shoes, to try and see something of what I thought they were seeing.
I admit to using the men "You know my name, not my story" as guidance on this.
Enjoy, but don't take it too seriously. :)