I scribble a lot about being a writer and how it feels and the difference between me and the rest of the world. Incessant ramblings on the oddity of who I am flow easily from my fingertips. I know I'm not alone in the way I feel. There are others like me, but in saying that, I consistently prove myself to be an alien among humans. From split infinitives to sentence fragments, I boldly break the laws of grammar and reason in search of a greater truth, or at least a more attractive one, knowing that it, perhaps, doesn't exist. The wanderings and musings in my own mind and realm of perception placed indelibly on paper for all to read are only the beginning of the existence I choose.

I pick solitude over sociality. I prefer to be alone. I prefer to be able to see everything without the hindrance of great human emotion to muddle my thought. It's easier (and let us never forget, safer) to be able to see a situation from a distant perspective. If I never have to step back to look at it, that's just one less step I have to take. Of course this is somehow a dream I can never accomplish, because, as a writer, I must have the conflict of emotion. I must be able to feel the waves of anger, love and fear washing over me. It's necessary for me to be able to hold disdain in my hand as a child, to nurse it and coddle it so I can understand more fully. Danger must be had, and fear must be felt. I must be able to touch each and every emotion in the spectrum of the human mind without letting it touch me.

I sit alone on a park bench watching the passersby, knowing that I am different, yet knowing that I am exactly the same. I feel the same way. I eat, breathe and sleep, and am annoyed by this in a way that I think they are not. I react to touch, sight, sound, taste and smell the same way, but I watch their reaction with greater interest than calculating my own. The concept of another human being is my obsession. As a predator watches prey, I wait for the precise moment that another person feels an emotion I've seen before, but not from that person and pounce on it with all the vigor of a small kitten tearing apart a toy mouse. I thrive believing that I understand, and I hold, in my small little paws, the secret to the universe seen...one person at a time.