By Mike Johnson
I don’t live here.
I’m just visiting.
No matter where I am or who I’m with, I’m on vacation.
This leaves me safely detached from irritants, yet free to embrace anything pleasant.
I can mingle with the herd but I’m no member.
I’m not invested enough to succumb to peer pressure.
When others turn right, I’m free to turn left.
And usually do.
I can feel a vibe. I can read a room. I’m situationally aware.
This keeps me from being trapped.
While others are physically jammed into the orchestra pit, I’m mentally in the balcony.
Perspective and detachment let me see what’s coming far before others.
I enjoy living with this freedom.
If some bowtied guy buttonholes me about geometry at a party, I’m hearing his words but looking for his angle.
I can do both at once.
If he’s trying to jam his square peg into my round hole, I’m outta there.
I’m just a visitor.
Earth life is odd, fascinating, deranged, invigorating, brutal and beautiful.
It’s a mishmash of random experience, swirling over us all, created unconsciously by the masses who have no idea they’re the creator.
Like wet paint tossed into a fan, it’s impossible to walk in humanity without getting splashed.
So it’s best to keep your car keys in hand, ready for a quick escape if the lacquer gets too thick.
A return to solitude, with my own creations, is the closest I ever get to a permanent home on earth.
But even then, I know it’s all temporary.
I’m just a visitor.
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