Strayed

This is one of the first things I ever wrote, like... 2 years ago maybe.

Some filed document gone missing, a typo mistake, or even a crooked seven that´s confused with a one. Such trivial mistakes are enough for a soul to end up on the wrong place, at the wrong time, like a package whose directions have been misread by the mail man. These souls will always try to fit in, and sometimes they will even appear to belong to where they are, but deep down they know they shouldn´t be there. Knights who were destined to wield spears on battle horses will be pierced with anguish when they grab their suit cases and ride their bicycles. Indians who were engineered to run with the wind will bite the asphalt with their bare feet, and will frown without quite knowing why. Magnanimous, wise men who would deserve a golden throne will be confined to a cubicle on an office.

Maybe the ones who control the traffic of souls are, ironically, soul-less beings. If that was the case, a slight change in directions, or maybe years, would suffice for them to laugh mischievously. To do this even more interesting they probably start working more efficiently immediately, so that the highest amount of souls go to the right place and time, making the outcast´s soul even more alienated. After all, there are many who go to the beach seeking crowds, only a few looking for sea shells.

The strayed souls will soon realize they are different. First, they will suspect there´s something wrong with them. They will probably spend most of their childhood, and if they are unlucky their adolescence, punishing themselves for being strange, trying to cut off their weird edges and polish themselves so that they fit through this slim door called acceptance, because of the stories they´ve heard of what lays on the other side. But then, sooner or later, they´ll realize it´s fucked up. Everything is. When a boy stands up to give a lady his seat and is looked upon with resentment, he will wonder when did chivalry turn into chauvinism. When a young man is surprised by the corrupt gears which make the world turn he will be called gullible, and will want to know when did innocence become the same thing as naivety. When a high-schooler walks barefoot for fear of hurting the grass he will be mocked by his classmates, and will apologize to the trees in their names. And if that wasn´t enough, they will whisper behind his back “He´s crazy, don´t talk to him”.

They will realize though, that they are not the only ones like that, and they will find shade in the monuments erected by other souls just as lost as them. Musicians, writers, artists of any kind, they all feed on the sense of strangeness that this world generates on them. The worlds they create will make much more sense that this one, even though they exist only on paper.

Fictitious characters will be more real than the people that ride the bus with us. They´ll find more truth on the lyrics of a song that on any article of the constitution, and the verses of some book will become their law. They´ll never feel lonely again, because they will know that all of these stories were made for them.