I wish to be loved and admired,
And yet know that I am not.
I appear cold, indifferent, hostile even.
Now and then an acquaintance will say
Did someone die? And I will say,
What are you talking about?
Even though I know the answer.
Or I will smear my face with an
Idiot’s grin and flap my tongue,
Seeking what I most fervently crave–
To be left alone.
Sometimes that works,
And sometimes it doesn’t.
Meddlers don’t easily give up,
Appointing themselves to rescue
Others from solitude, that state
Of egocentric bliss, a place beyond
The shifting contours of expression,
Where the things they think they see,
Cannot be seen,
Where the things they think they know,
Cannot be known,
Where laughter and song cannot be shared,
With the hard, uncaring world.
© Dennis Hathaway
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