Sparks & Synapses

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I have faith even when it seems impossible, faith that eventually the world will stop passing me by and invite me along for the ride. I look at things and people from the sidelines of reality because I don’t feel like I live in the same world as so many of them. And that way I can’t be accused of staring at them, at least not most of the time. But once in awhile, someone breaks through that wall carefully constructed between the rest of the world and me.

It always happens when I’m not particularly paying attention to the people around me, and this is rare. I like to people watch, because certain people look so interesting, or just plain happy. But during these moments I tend to be wrapped up in my own blanketed little world, a book in my lap, or staring off into space and daydreaming. The only way my concentration is broken is that heat, and prickly feeling on the back of your neck that tells you you’re being watched. It’s human nature; no one knows why anyone looks at them. I won’t even necessarily stop what I’m doing to look up and find out who is looking at me; it’s almost a voyeuristic thrill to know I have momentarily captivated someone. With the book blocking my face I can smirk freely and enjoy the moment, otherwise my expression must remain stoic. After a few seconds my eyes can briefly wander around aimlessly, scanning for that second pair of eyes still glued to me.

Once I have found the guilty party it’s very difficult not to be noticed and break the moment. If my mysterious friend has not looked away yet, I know once they do they will not be looking back again. The neck snapping turn watchers make when being discovered, could kill someone if the embarrassment were not already assaulting their nervous system. Male or female makes only a small difference; both genders c

an look upon me with wonder or disgust. Most often for males it’s disgust, the look etched upon their faces of being annoyingly close to the source of a repugnant smell. To Hell with them, anything to nudge yourself one notch above me, fuck you. Disgusted women aren’t much different from disgusted men; there are masculine features to their sickly grimaces. There’s something about “stink face” that makes even the prettiest woman look like a man. The ensemble would be incomplete without that snooty glare that says “I will always be able to do better than you.” Karma is a bitch, but it’s not the only one.

I am not Frankenstein’s monster; I can’t grind their bones into toothpicks, although that might augment my award winning smile. I blame Disney and their short-sighted selection of heroes. Now every girl grows up dreaming of herself as the princess, deserving of no less than the perfect man, who for all intensive purposes does not exist. The truth is there is a hierarchy of quality and Disney has chosen to represent only the top levels of every category, no one man ever holds them all. Of course, Disney does this to women too. Imagineering an illusory mountain that is impossible to climb, a peak that will never be reached. The mind attempts to compensate, but it leads to men and women chasing the same ten people and ignoring all others. But in my venomous condemnation of the conservative elitists I have forgotten the others.

Not everyone shoots a fiery beam of hatred through my eyes. Sometimes the stranger views me with honest wonder, not menace. My recognition is returned with the nod of acknowledgment, the gentleman’s long distance handshake. Unselfconscious women do not turn away when their gaze is caught in my own. Instead a smile spreads across her face, expressing herself wordlessly over the space between us, and her eyes glow a little brighter in that instant. She gathers her belongings and departs, fracturing our connection. I know that I could not have approached her; our moment shattering amid sonic waves can only bring disappointment. Reality often falls short of these moments. Her face will fade away; no information exchanged, just a spark briefly bridging the synapse of aerial space.