The Fine Line

Often I look and gaze upon the stars above, and always connect dots that form the constellations, drawing lines with my hand. I then imagine myself walking upon a line, though it is invisible, my body wobbles and reaffirms its stance as I tread upon like a cat walking towards its next meal. The line is more thin a string of silk, and any step that I take upon it jolts me to the extremes to the side of the line. On the left I see a white bleakness, made of soft pads withs doors along the hallway. I hear screams and laughter, tears and banging, a chaos controlled by closed doors.

To my right were people, they were alone but cared not for their eyes fixated on pieces of paper. One wrote their own realities and destinies, one drew up the world which is home to whatever they desire, another breathed life into the mirage of a person that was set out for them to mimic, the one that stood out is the one with cameras capturing the essence of all these other people and brought it into reality.

Often I see them in the same line a few paces ahead, and they too stumble to the left, but always finish back where they started. Behind me however there are others more like me, stumbling and believing they belong to the left, some actually wandering the halls as I pass them by.

I however, though inclined to the left due to the abnormality of my mind, cannot walk for I still feel as if I do not belong. I do not go to the right for I feel inferior to them and their success and do not have the sufficient confidence to see them as my equal. I cannot go on either for I do not belong in one place more than the other.

Therefore here I stay upon the thin and accursed line. A line who has my feet stuck to it like a compact and pestering piece of gum which has dried to the shape of my foot. Such is my fate, treading between the line of insanity and creativity. The insanity of my thoughts and dreams, and the creativity which lie in between like a river between mountains.