We were standing outside a world we didn't belong to, watching everyone on the inside force themselves into molds they didn't fit in, ignoring the pains of shrinking or stretching themselves, contorting their bodies in inhuman ways. If they could only fit they'd be perfect. Those of us who could never fit because we never learned to see beauty in warping ourselves, no amount of distortion could hide our true identities, found ourselves standing beyond the wall separating molded figures and blurred figures. We are the blurred lines, we are not defined, we are blended personalities splattered with colors not yet discovered. We are outcast. We are different. There is no definition of where one person begins and the other ends, we blend, we blur. We've written stories on our skin. We laugh at everybody trying to hard to fit because no matter how hard they try to roughen their edges, define the lines, they will always be blurry. The people on the inside don't know it, but they are just like us, outsiders. Because no matter how many molds they shove themselves into their individuality cannot be shaped. We laugh at their self-obsessed ways, waiting for the day they realize that changing who they are on the outside will never change who the are on the inside. On the inside we are all outsiders.
