Musings of an Outcast
Musings of an Outcast stories

ahmadh A writer in my sparetime.
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
I was people-watching when I saw a stranger who told me this story with the look in their eyes. Little did I know, I was looking at a mirror.

Musings of an Outcast

Alone I sit down, the cold breeze of the outdoors hardening the wet morning down on my mud-speckled boots. So cold is the night, so cold is my countenance.

Hours ago, I took to listening to music in order to pass the time, but the most powerful music was that of the wildlife.

The wildlife, might I add, who I met miles to the south in the prairie-lands; devoid of human life.

Now, the song of this unfamiliar city I wandered into hours ago was that of businesspeople, aristocrats and students, all of which were drunkards, yet all of which owned,

or would own this city I now sit in, like a cockroach in a pristine restaurant. Similar to a cockroach, I obliquely noticed how they avoided me. I sense that they suspect I want their money.

However, many of the citizens and students, rich and poor alike, offered me a hand, words, a free drink,

or even a job in one case (obviously due to the alcohol which outweighed his better judgement): but motionless I sit.

I dare not move my eyes, let alone any other part of my body which wasn't necessary to keep me alive.

I remain still, as if the snow which slowly begin to trickle down from the night sky, like cocaine from the sachet of an executive, had frozen me into an ice-sculpture. I dare not move.

Not because of fatigue, not because my bones ached (which they did ever so much), not even because my muscles had atrophied due to malnourishment, but simply because of one word.

What made me this honors student, this valedictorian, this prodigy, this idol who was destined to have man step forward as a race freeze in an unfamiliar city's street.

It was not the difficulty of the road ahead, no the path to immortality in the pages of human achievement was simple for somebody like me,

but then it gripped me tight like the corset on a prostitute. What made this once perfect 21-year-old human body deteriorate to that of a geriatric patient.


Such a thick, immeasurably heavy net of apathy had been cast over me like a tsunami one day as I slept. Since that day, which I cannot identify, all I've had the energy to do was escape.

Escape from my perfect life.

Escape from my loving family, escape from my pristine apartment which scholarships had fully paid for over a hundred miles away which I walked day and night: and for what?

To stare into nothingness in a foreign land, days away from where I called home?

No, it was to leave from the ideals of man: responsibility, accountability, contributing to the world of living entirely.

The only comfort I now possess is the fact that most bystanders now avoid looking at me, who has ignored their every form of communication.

Me, this unkept barbaric outcast, and a poorly crafted monument to the sins of those who are too petrified to reach their full potential as a contribution to society.

So now, as I recite this abomination to the English language within the confines of my mind, which is destined to be lost into the neurons which cannot be bothered to continue firing.

Maybe one day, I will gain the ability to move somewhere else. Eventually, people here may begin to recognize me, to expect something from me.

But for now, I will stare blankly into this street's gutter; into its darkness which masks the foul discards of those who exist and contribute to this human ecosystem.

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