Marching to a different drummer.
At least if you're marching to another beat, another rhythm, another wave of sound and need and desire, at least you’re matching steps with the beat of reality, the wave of balance the universe demands. You’re at least hearing the rhythm, the ebb and flow and the tempo of life washing through the veins of an improbable need.
I always seem to be out of step.
Out of step of with the marching feet of an oblivious mass of humanity.
Out of step with even the stragglers who strain their ears and turn enraptured eyes to the roiling sky of another realm but whose bodies sway and dance to the same melody, creating their own achingly beautiful song.
Out of step even with the cadre of those with whom I’m supposed to be marching.
Disjointed, disaffected, my step is a jerking, dissonant abomination. While I strain desperately to envelop the rhythm of the stars, to reach out and pull into heart and soul the cadence of a universe which demands balance, the tempo and syntax of the dance flee and I stumble and trip and earn impatient fleeting glances of impatience at my St. Vitas flailing.
Though I struggle too hear the drumming, rhythmic demand of the universal song, my ears are shuttered and deaf and pathetic, I scrabble, always out of sync, to follow the intricate steps of a dance I never learned.
The wrong step.
The wrong word.
The wrong sense of timing.
At the end of days, arms jerking and thrashing, legs stiff, uncooperative, the cacophony of self consciousness disrupting innate melody, I stumble to a stop, sensing the pointlessness in even trying to keep up.
On the peripheral vibrating nerve endings I sense the rhythm I cannot embrace and watch as the rest of the world passes me by.
No one notices.
Because I don’t hear the drummers.