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Blue Orange Green Pink Purple

Epiphany

There are stories, spoken
and tales which are oft told.
But there are, too
memories; which live
to be forgotten.


There is no category for this; but the last
in time.

The Walks Are Beautiful

I have been going out for walks every day, and still I enjoy them. Perhaps some part of me starts the walk only out of some nagging sense of obligation to myself, but I come out of it genuinely enjoying what I've done, and feeling moderately proud of it. The wind is blustery, trying to force me back indoors, but I sink my hands deeper into my pockets and trudge onward to the Cathedral, where I can walk around in the warmth and serenity and enjoy the feeling of having made the conscious effort. It is nothing to anybody but myself, but then I am the one audience I am, realistically, trying to please.

I have met so many people from different walks of life, and am glad for it. There are people like me, and more often than not, people entirely unlike me. I have empathized with the first and sympathized with the latter, and while there are many people still with whom I have not offered the first word, I am, this time, immodestly proud of those which I have. Just the other day I met with a man who had undergone training in Tibetan Buddhism in Nepal. I had been admiring his attire and bearing for days, never daring to approach, but always wondering. Part of me is still amazed at how I walked up to him and introduced myself, but I'm beginning to understand that people from different walks of life are yet more similar than they let on.

No man is an island; everyone craves socialization in one way or another. The idea of approachability has taken on a life of its own, with people internalizing sudden introductions as a social faux pas. People are embarrassed to be interested in others: it might stem from a fear of rejection, but more so possibly because we are a society that fears intimacy. It is not the fear of getting rejected, but the introspection that follows any such exercise. We think there is something wrong with us, and that perhaps we have exposed a weakness or a fallibility that everyone else - those stoic paragons of self-restraint - does not share. Indeed, when I get snubbed I do feel down for a bit, but when I succeed in getting through to the other person, and talk at length with them, the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment are hard to beat.

I walked down to Wharton Park today to take part in the widegames for the Assassins' Society. It was a relatively lonely walk as I hadn't the heart to ask anyone else if they were going. Indeed, I'm not entirely sure I wasn't the only Hild Bede student there. There are things I can't do yet - be completely honest about myself with people - but I'm trying.

I love doing awesome things like roleplaying, assassin games and manga; I love writing fantasy and sci fi, and part of me really wants to cosplay even though most of me is vehemently against it; I fear I'm not actually considerate, just worried about what people will think of me otherwise; sometimes I worry I'm the most selfish person, and I just donate money or do charity work to feel better about myself.

But  when I look at all the things that worry me, and all the things that I'm embarrassed about, I just think that I'm sure everyone else has their own guilty pleasures; the kind of faux pas that poseurs get excited about - what are we as a race if not diverse? There's no shame in showing enthusiasm for anything at all; after all, it's a lot more genuine. And I'm sure everyone suffers from the same worries themselves, that they aren't the wonderful people they imagine themselves to be. And just because that's probably true doesn't mean we have any reason to try for anything less.

But just because that's probably true doesn't make it any harder to be less self-conscious. I don't know if I want to change that. Is that who I am? Do I actually like being the way I am now? I feel like if I become an extrovert, or become intensely passionate about the things I do, I'll have tamed the blustery wind, and made the morning walk that much easier. But I quite like the little struggles and the small respite; the warmth I feel at the end of the day is that much sweeter for it.
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This is a Story
without a Protagonist
save Human Error.

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