Outsider

The playground, the place where cliques and outcasts are made. A swing set, where only the coolest kids could swing; where all the lames and nerds were told to back off. Now as we have grown older, swing sets have become more like exclusive. You have guards around the swing set, and they alternate turns with those who are on it.

They have their whispers, their inside jokes. They are unashamed at how they tease in front of you. They don't care if you are included, only that their superficial conversations stay strong and leave you out of them.

They take trips to the water fountain without you. Knowing good and well that with your crutches it will take a you a much longer time. They make sure to rub it in your face, "how wonderful this fresh clean water is!" They don't care about your thirst, about your dry, cracked throat.

Then they always leave others behind. They take their happiness of the swing and make sure to leave the leftovers standing in the line that they will never get out of . . . not everyone gets to swing.

Who are the others? . . .
. . . The observers, the weird ones, and outcasts of this playground. The only thing keeping them out is the fact that they made choices . . . choices that took them on a different path. They look with longing, wondering why they can't fit in, why they don't fit into any mold. They ask, "Why did God make me different? Why am I going such a different route? Why is my life so uniquely shaped this way?" They know it is best to stay outside and be the wandering beast that they are; to let go and wander off the playground to someplace entirely different. Never fitting in, they begin to embrace their differences and reach out for something beyond their sight, beyond the fog, beyond to sea . . . but doesn't it suck to be an outsider . . .