There were times I wished I was just another outsider looking in. No relation whatsoever to the people being observed. But I can’t keep the distance. These are my own blood, my kin, my siblings. And yet, while we share the same mother, my own behavior and likes are somewhat beyond their comprehension, and that is why I try very hard to stay away. No one can deny our inherited likeness – the eyes, the loosely,thick-strands of hair, the bulky bone structure, even the low arch of our feet, our coffee fondness. But the similarity ends when I see my own literary favorites, my smoking habit, my own way of seeing the world in it’s slanted state. Even then, I always ask why do I differ from my family. They don’t listen to me. They never believed anything I said. And I always try to earn their approval.
So I got tired.
Now I say what I feel. I do what must be done. That, and my seemingly streetwise demeanor tend to get me in trouble with my family. At least I think so. Contrary to what others believe, I am the token black sheep, the one who’s always away. The brother who’s always somewhere, except home.
Well, home, now, is where someone remembers me. I’m humbled by the welcoming arms from old friends, college buddies and new ones. The sad part is, I don’t really feel welcome anymore when my thoughts turn to my own family.
I’m a deviant they will never accept, nor understand.