Was it not all forgotten and in the past? Sworn never again to be found on my doorstep, feverishly ringing the bell and charging in like a mad bull the instant the door is edged open? Of standing alone, off to the side, while those around you are gathered in intimidating huddles. Of fighting those internal battles; walk up to them and strike a conversation! But of what? And on what fuel will the conversation run on to keep going?

The first step you take into their world. You are optimistic, naïve. Head held high, a smile plastered on your face, you pick up your step, ready to make your bold entrance. You cannot find your place in this new world when everything is already in its place. The show of bravado crumbles, your step falters, and your smile wavers as all eyes are fixed upon you, their burning apathy scorching you. These eyes scrutinize you from head to toe then turn away as, pair by pair, they declare you of no particular significance. All backs turn on you, joining to intensify the wall you once thought you could karate chop with ease. The cold bricks that make up this wall are laid in with thick cement, but you will not accept fate as it is served. No wall is impenetrable. If one looks enough, one will find that fissure in the wall, and one will break through.

Convinced, you look for that crack day after day, making it your sole mission in life. You will succeed in the new world. Despite being out of place, you will find your place, or create one for yourself.

“Wasn't Mr. Evans hilarious today? Does he always enact scenes from stories like that?”

“Wow is that your dog? I used to have a golden retriever too!”

“Are you going to the game tonight? I hear the cheerleaders have a new dance routine!”

“That's a really cute dress! Where did you get it?”

“Did you go watch that new movie?”

In the end, the seed that was planted in your subconscious so long ago has taken root and sprouted, even against your will, until it is now a fully grown tree, too obvious to ignore. What had once been genuine enthusiasm now becomes an old, tired act that you no longer believe.

No one notices you, and no one cares. No one registers, in their minds, the insignificant person you are, all scrunched up; trying to fight the despondency you know is clearly expressed on your face for all to see. Yes, it is there, displayed to the world, yet no one will look at it. Just another scrawny, nameless painting, outshined by the Picasso, Monet, and Van Gough always teeming with visitors that never think to give you a second glance, if they look at all.