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This is a short story, but can go under personal.



The Loner



There is always one. In everybar, every shool, every home, in every stret. The quiet ones sit in a corner, backs to the wall, with eyes frequently glance at the entrance and the back door. Constanlty checking if someone has followed and if the path is clear for another dash toward escape.



That is not just sitting, it is hiding, trying not to noticed. They sit looking at old scars, and try to nurse old pains. But this is only tempary. They study the faces in the crowd, lisen to the talk, and watch the moes every one makes.



It is the loner`s existance, not life, vicarously spent within the mind. Bits and pices of other people`s happiness, joy, sorrws, and all the rest colleced for their own.



The quiet ones sit and observe, which may make the others wouder why they don`t join the world. But they do within their minds, as they look with expressions of pain at old wounds, which never seem to heal.



The quiet ones know tatal silence attracts attention and risk of supicion, so some occasional comment must be offered in more costly risk than it is worth.



When this happens I stop tp think. 'I should have heeded Mark Twain`s advice', "Better to sit quietly in the corner and appear ingnorant than to speak and remove all doubt."



Petty differences be it skin, ethnic, religion, or life style makes outcast of everybody. The desier to belong is powerful within a loner`s heart. They dare with great anxiety to return agen to the places where they are always in doubt about acceptance of one`s difference.