To Not Be A Roue

Sometimes, I wonder . . . About people. Well, that’s not true; I wonder a lot, not just some of the time. Every face that I see, voice I interact with, body I am in the same room with elicits a tiny, little train of thought in my mind. Immediately, I wonder where he’s from, what she does for a living, how he thinks and what she’s seen. It hinges on the fanatical, almost.
And, then, there are those people that evoke a larger locomotive metaphor for the abstract idea of electric impulses traversing through the lobes of my brain. Those who stare at me with glassy eyes, and behind them I see nothing; those whose faces are blank, whose mouths hang open an inch or two without notice. Their dress is typically a bit off-kilter, and their hair raggedy. They speak slowly, and their words are rushed together and cramped — hard to understand. Is it genetic? Is it a disorder, or result of an accident: some incident that heinously disfigured the structure of their mind? Or, worst of all, is it just the product of their environment . . . A lackluster education, abusive home-life, tragic loss or malicious reality?
And as I ponder the contents of strangers’ heads, I can see them looking at me . . . With my slight stutter and squinty, droopy eyes. And it’s at this point that I just close my eyes.