Title Goes Here

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By kenniyakka
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You're walking down the street from the bus stop to get to your house. You're trying not to slip and fall and crack your skull on the side of the pavement, so you're watching your feet as you walk. You hear noise across the street, cheerful banter– some other kids strolling down the street. You are not interested. You almost walk headfirst into someone moving much too slow and much too close down the same path as you. You mumble an apology and move on.

That person you bumped into was me.

I've been walking for three days now, to get to my destination. I get off the same bus as you, I take the same route as you, and I "live" in the same town as you. You've never noticed, but that's fine, I don't mind, and I'm too caught up in the sticky web of my own thoughts to care. You can hear them hissing out of my ears and my mouth, no membrane between to keep them tangled in my head. I can't keep my mouth shut, and smoke from the speed at which the gears in my head are turning leaks from the corners of my lips and curls around my frame. There is no vocality to be found, just thoughts being composed on the silent notes of vapor that escape my throat.

I am not a machine, but I can work like one. I move on autopilot. I am preoccupied. I am not thinking about my day. I am not thinking about what I am going to do once I get 'home'. I am working.

I am lost in deep space, but you wouldn't be able to tell.

Even if you had looked up, all you would've seen was a person, another unoriginal face in a sea of mass. You most likely wouldn't even recognize me, as I tend to take on the face of everybody. I am all and I am none. You wouldn't even have looked up, had I not touched you. You wouldn't have wondered what was going on in my head; you wouldn't have stopped in your tracks to ask questions, try to better understand me. You would, you did, wonder why I was in your way. You did avoid me.

You talk to me sometimes, when you see me in the hallways. You'd just be making small talk, but I'd always remember what you said. Always hold on. Always store your words away in the file set aside for you in the back of my head. The next time you come up to me, I'll be sure to reference a previous conversation and you'll look at me, confused and slightly amused, and I will know that you have forgotten—but it will assuage me if anything, stroking my need to be… forgotten?

What it is is that you remember me from some of your classes. You're lonely, and you remember my unmemorable face. You feel that I'm safe to talk to, because I've never caused a stir. You feel that you could tell me anything, and I'd abruptly fall off the face of the earth before I breathed a word of our conversation to anyone. And that's because it's true. And that's fine. I am not out to cause a scene. I am not here to create a ripple, a tear, in the delicate lives of the ones around me. I am here to exist and to function properly. My main priority is to keep myself up to par, clean and capable and unnoticeable. I do not want to be singled out. These kids around us want to be seen seven days a week. They used to be sharp. They used to be able to tell when something was off. Now it's some sort of poorly played game, forgotten on the handlebars of periods and mustaches and pubic hair and love. I've handled their suspicion, their blame and their hypotheses, for years. I have gained some sort of ill-gotten trust. I am uninteresting now. I am one of them.

I have infiltrated the masses.

And you would never know.

I blend in because they don't know me. Sadly, these kids are like me. They don't think I'm strange anymore because they, too, are one of me. They are all just one faceless, moving mass, centered around the idea of existentialism: Who are we? Why are we here? What are we? Why? Why? Why?

I wish I could tell them. I wish I could provide answers, or at least discuss the myriad theories I have cooked up in my cluttered brain. However, I have learned that—unfortunately– it is oft frowned upon to grab a stranger by the crook of the elbow and scream.

I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell you what I am, where I'm from, who I am. I mean that, really, literally and figuratively. I lose sleep at night, wondering where I'm from. I have "parents," but they don't understand me– no. That is superficial. They are not me. That's better. They cannot and never will be me, and cannot and never will know what it is like to be me. They tell me that they've done everything I've ever done and been through all the things I've been through, but I highly doubt that. The experiences are not the same. The variables are different.

I once asked my mother, as we left the local hospital and I glanced up at the night sky, if she ever felt like she wasn't human. She answered in the negative and told me to hurry up, to stop wasting time. I looked at her and wondered where the similarities hid. She was a woman of forty somethings, someone I could easily find a replica of on the street in the daytime. She was dark around the eyes and in the mind, an offset and unforseen casualty of being alive. She was pushing half a century, and she showed it.

I was, I am, noting nothing in particular, not like her. Yes, I am dark around the eyes and the mind. Yes, I am sometimes human. I sometimes make the mistakes that they expect of me, that they ask of me.

Yes, I've been the "victim" of life.

But I have not hurt because of it. I have not impregnated someone because I didn't want to be alone. I have not seen and heard and done nothing of it and let other people's ghosts haunt me for my mistakes. Spirits of the dead would not like me, anyways. Spirits of the dead seek out the living.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to attract ghosts, to be so vibrant and full of life, like you. Sometimes I wonder what it would take to come correct, to stand before you and be realized as a someone, an entity, a being. On cold days when my joints creak, I promise myself that I will find a life, take it by all means necessary, and cling to it like humans do.

And when I do, you'll be the first person I tell. I'll tell you and you'll be shocked that I have had this burning secret in my gut for so long, but it'll be okay. You'll understand. And we'll disappear, maybe. If my suspicions are correct and I am not exactly what I seem to be, we'll leave this sad little town on this black and blue planet and spread wings we don''t have and soar to another time, another land where I can make you mine. And if, on some odd chance, I am human after all, and not some magnificent other thing I can only dream of with my eyes open– if this is so, we'll move away anyway, to somewhere deep and hidden and secluded and dark and damp and lonely and we'll be lonely together alone– or we'll find a place so thick with a population of the masses that you couldn't throw a penny without hitting somebody with identity issues. And it'll be right. It'll be us.

Or maybe that's just all in my head. Maybe that's the part of me that's still teen, not robot or alien or anything else that could shut down trivial things like emotions as soon as they got in the way. Still teen? Still teen. Still trivial and small and unrealistic, moreso than androids or aliens among us. It's the part that I can't kill, that I can't make as efficient as I would like to believe the rest of me is. It's the part of me that can't kill my mother, can't put her out of her misery, can't free the ghosts. It's the part of me that doesn't scream and end these wild fantasies the children have about being important, about being number one. It's the part of me that wants to need you.

I was the one you bumped into on the street that day. But you didn't know.
Complete title is "Title Goes Here, or from the Point of View of an Alien."

This was originally a story I wrote about three years ago, and this version you're seeing is the revision I did last November. There are still things that I don't like about it, but overall I'm happy with what I've managed to portray. That being said, I'd still appreciate any feedback or critique you may have to offer.

Okay, time to get back to work. Thank you for reading <3
© 2012 - 2020 kenniyakka
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