I was born a sensitive person in an increasingly insensitive world.
I was born imprisoned in a zoo enclosure with a brain wired to be running through the lush landscape beside the never-ending expanse of mountains—a scenario that just wasn’t meant to be.
Yet, I’ve been forced to adapt to an environment I’m expected to fit in. After all, that’s what mankind has done best: adapt to our surroundings.
So, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to be the animal everyone goes to the zoo to see in the first place, to lead an interesting life—day after day—that people are willing to hear about.
The thing is, I’ve become bored with the people who come to see me. Nobody has the desire to stand out or the courage to be the slightest bit different from the rest. It’s tiring, being the recipient of pointing fingers and laughing faces that criticize the way I go about living in the shrinking space I’ve been assigned to. All this while they have the ability to move about the rest of the world, free, in whichever way they please.
I know there are others out there who share the same perspective as me. Even though we may even be in the same zoo, the confines of my enclosure don’t permit me to see past the feeling of defeat etched in the reflection of the glass that cages me in or the few people who have, regrettably, chosen me to be their standing joke for the time being.
Each day, it gets harder and harder to make a connection with anybody who has the decency to try. There always seems to be one outcast soul who shares the same desperation to rid themselves of that isolated feeling, and in a last attempt, they come to me. The ending remains the same, though: The glass that separates us creates a stone-deaf barrier, and none of my pleas are heard. Once again, I’m left alone with my own thoughts.
I suppose I’ve learned that nobody wants to see an animal that rests in a corner, unmoving. People want to see the monkeys with toothy grins swing from ropes and branches until the sun trades places with the moon. They want to see the lions—the kings of the jungle—perched proud upon the highest rock, roaring with an incoherent, chest-rumbling bellow.
They focus their attention on the animals that are able to strike a sliver of fear into their hearts or fill their chest with a bit of amusement.
That level of recognition is futile. It remains an unattainable, slippery substance that no being could ever obtain a firm grasp of.
So, with that knowledge, I return to the corner of my enclosure with my hands over my ears to block the inevitable laughter and dream of a place where I can finally run free.
