Another Sunday, another fireside. I sat in the aisle trying my best to appreciate the mostly well sung musical pieces presented. I can't sing, neither can Simon Cowell, but that's no reason not to criticise those who can and do. That's a wonderfully banal boys 2 men impression, I've heard dying cats deliver better harmonies. You know that kind of up beat positive reinforcement, which is usually, thankfully, kept confined to my head (and none would be the wiser, if not for this blog).
As soon as it was all over I Usain bolted for the door, hands in pockets, as to discourage any free ranging happy hand shakers from testing to see if I was unarmed or a disembodied spirit or possibly just from saying hi. A simple double eye brow raise with a slight head pop would have to suffice as a method for acknowledging each others existence. I can be a real sociable guy if you catch me in the right mood.
I made my way to the car park, propping myself up on the car of the kind person who drove me there. Surrounded by my own isolation, I drank in the self-imposed loneliness. It had a bitter after taste. Was I experiencing a watered down preview of outer darkness? I looked up at the stars, but they seemed just as distant as the people who were still grazing in their social circles back in the chapel. I was an outlier from the parabola of which I secretly longed to be a part. My only comfort came from this thought: I'll show 'em, I'll show 'em all.
TO BE CONTINUED (the optimistic part starts really soon, I promise)...