Do Tell

 Lately a few people have been pointing out my mannerisms to me and I love it. I guess I should be astonished, or afraid even, that I don't know myself that well, but I'm not really paying attention. My mind wanders easily, and my imagination takes over. That sounds like something someone would say about a five year old. I don't mind. If I can be as carefree as a child, I've attained a victory, however subconscious it is. 

Speaking of my subconscious, there must be a lot going on in there. Wherever it is. Or whatever. Not too sure. Either way, the idea I have of myself and the idea other people have of me don't seem to line up. I'm often lost in thought, and in doing so I scrunch up my face like I'm trying to strengthen my forehead muscles. I'm just as often lost in song, and I routinely get caught singing some eclectic tune that has been jailed in my skull, or some song I made up entirely while drifting off. When I catch myself I imagine someone else seeing me. How strange he is, they must think, to be staring so decidedly at nothing at all. How angry he is, they must think, glaring at everyone around him.

That line of thought recently got turned on its head due to the state of the world, now that we are all wearing masks. Walking into the break room at work I was greeted by a coworker who told me they don't like me wearing a mask. They can't see my smile. I was taken aback. I flat out asked what they meant. They told me that I was always smiling, and they found it pleasant, and now the mask hides it.

My shock was immeasurable. I don't remember smiling. Perhaps they were wrong. But what kind of person would lie about something like that?  How kind of them to say such a thing to me at all.  A wonderful moment, indeed.  It changed how I saw myself. I was so happy to be a person that they saw was smiling all the time.  I have never cared about wearing a mask for health reasons, but suddenly I wanted to never wear one again.

Once I started to have my mannerisms pointed out to me I started to notice some myself. Looking at old pictures and sometimes videos, I would pick out my own mannerisms. A video of me watching my dog spotlights how I hold my hands and my arms when I am stationary.  I fiddle with my hands when they are by my sides.  My hands reach up and rest themselves on my neck, in the crook of my elbow.  It felt almost foreign to be watching myself from an analytical point of view. It also made me feel like these involuntary actions were my personality manifesting itself through my body.  Where many people may feel strong-armed by the idea of fate, destiny, of being a vessel, I was reinvigorated by my own quirks, steadfast in my love for myself. What an odd creature I am.  

This was many years ago I began to write this story.  Back when I worked in a job with a break room and having to wear a mask.  In a stroke of coincidence, I have had another feature of mine communicated to me quite recently.  At a restaurant, the people across from me told me I had nice eyes.  How lucky for me.  Something I have no control over, something I use exclusively for perceiving my world, people like to look at.  When I was younger, and susceptible to negative influence, my eyes were a point of derision. Quite large and alien, back then.  My love for myself grows once again with the help of the people around me. They took a moment to say a nice thing, and now I feel it in my head and in my heart.  

Can you see the disconnect?  I had wondered how I looked to the people around me.  Feeling strange as a being.  My habits look foreign, quizzical, deviating, unfamiliar. Perhaps even contentious, bothersome.  My mind told me this before any person did.  Still I took pleasure in being the way I am, in spite of the potential perception.  Concrete evidence was then presented and now I can take pleasure in the way I am, but from a different place, a better place, a more wholesome place.  Does the source of my inspiration make a difference? Very much so.  Living for spite, with spite, in a constant state of animosity with suspicion will take you down a path of acrimony.  Perhaps not full of malice, but

inspired by a rancorous gusto.  There is a peace that washes over you when your internal accusations are trimmed up.  A turbulence that I did actively notice was pacified.  How harmonious life can be when you are not fighting false diffidence.  A boon of arrogance washed over me due to not a kind word, but an honest one.  The nullification of doubt, of uncertainty.  Mental strife, inner turmoil: a revealing affirmation, much like a lifting fog.  

I am reminded of my forgetfulness often.  Nothing of major import, but noticeable to myself.  Being told my mannerisms lingers eternal, an adamant yet unconscious reminder that I wage no war, I need not live in the shadow of hostility.  My courage is impetuous, my certainty is impregnable, my style is convivial.  Thank you for letting me know.

To be a witness

I sat at at the end of a long table, in a room bustling with people. They were each so preoccupied with stories and conversations and mounds of words and destinations that I sat ignored. Ignored but not alone. I took in the sights and sounds of my fellow person. A bubble formed around me as I watched them laugh and lean and sip coffee. Truly a fascinating sight was beheld. A spectator sat intent and staring in their midst; invisible, floating eyes in a jungle of energy. I listened to the world around me happen.


Personal information pressed into my ears with gusto, the speakers of which quite aware of my presence but seemingly lacking in care. I became an uncooperative witness. Reality was called into question. Somehow, private and personal information wafted into my brain like an unknown pleasant smell to a jogger's nostrils; without their knowledge or consent, without asking for permission. Information relayed to me unwittingly and openly. So I sat and I absorbed it. Not by choice but by necessity. Truly, I tried to maintain my own privacy. I read pages of books, ate a meal, passed the time with menial smartphone activity. But I could not push out the stimuli of neighboring person's drawl and chatter.


And as it poured in so effortlessly I grew upset. I grew tired. And I grew ever irked. I suppose some would be happy to be this broad daylight superspy, to find out the intricacies of the lives of the fellows around them. To have the insider secrets of their common peers. I loathed it to an extreme that was unjustified. The mundane happenings of these tales pushed me to block out the details in a way I had not imagined. The light had dimmed and my skin and bone began to fade. My body, it's corporeal self at least, faded into transparency, leaving behind only my cold, skeletal fingers and palms. A pair of eyes floated in empty space, stuck fast in an invisible head. I acted on instinct alone from this point forward. And not an instinct I was used to, but a new one thrust upon me by destiny. The dim light and the dull white and the hands and the eyes, all of my body, worked in unison as I commanded. First, flipping over the table, sending it's contents flying. My hands flailed about wildly in their anger, slapping off of each other as I lost control and regained it. They slapped a woman across the face. They banged doors open and shut. They clapped together haphazardly. They rotated as a feather in a gust of wind, without purpose, direction, or flightpath. Everything before me was thrown about in a flurry of open-hand slaps. Hands propelled only by thought and vengeful eyes.


Then I opened my eyes, stood up and walked out. I drove home silently and forgot the entirety of the drive itself. My carpet was never softer than this time I chose to lay on it. Curled up in the fetal position, I tried to sleep and failed. I listened to my breath and my heartbeat and I sunk deeper into the floor. I sunk so deep I entombed myself beneath the hardwood and then down, deeper, beneath dirt and grass. Here I was alone with another pair of eyes and hands that were not my own. We held our hands together, fingers interlocked, and their eyes smiled. Mine smiled, too.