I live my life on the outside looking in.
I don't mean to do it. It's just what kind of happens. And I wonder if it is because I am a writer that I walk on the fringes instead of through the big, fat middle of life, or did I become I writer because I am a fringe-walker?
Chicken vs Egg, huh?
What do I mean by fringe-walker? Well, you tell me? Are you one, too?
I bet you know if you are.
But sometimes, the outside feels a little lonesome. Like today.
And sometimes, I want to walk right into the big, fat middle. And I do.
But I don't stay.
I explore for a moment, then go back to my wanderings,
around the edges of the excitement,
maybe perching for a bit from time to time,
so as to get a better look at what is really going on
in that big, fat middle.
But I am a fringe-walker.
A writer in need of either a nap or more caffeine.