maladaptive resilience

I'd barely managed to leap out of the way before the car came to a halt, my legs tangling and knees knocking together like a deer evading headlights. I considered delivering a swift kick to the bumper with my demonias, but ultimately decided against it. Anyone crazy enough to attempt vehicular assault was likely not someone in which to engage in escalation, especially with my only defense against the car being my unreasonably heavy boots. Instead I did what I always did. I walked away. I did not change my gait, nor did I pick up in speed, hoping that my indifference would provide him greater frustration than any response I couldn't be bothered to give. 

I wondered sometimes how to conceptualize my indifference. No doubt it was a mechanism of defense: if I found myself caring about the ways in which I was transgressed it would surely incite some kind of psychic fracture in me. No longer could I pass it off as the negative fixations of an overly sensitive individual; most of the time, I am not treated well. 

People are strange, when you're a stranger.

Strange and chaotic events follow me as though by the calling card of some deity I've garnered the ire or more dangerously, the favor of. The incident had conveniently occurred at a point in my morose ponderment of the the notion that I did not, in fact, belong anywhere. It is something I am reminded of in small ways, an unprovoked sour glance from a girl seated beside me in class, the sight of a platinum blonde wearing a beanie with a sharped toothed smile that I knew I'd never catch the eye of. Insidious constants dislodging my attempts to gain a foothold into relative emotional and social normalcy. It was a feeling I'd long ignored, too caught up within my own paracosmic trivialities to pay mind to the outside world. Some emo song blared over my headphones as I pushed open the door to the coffee shop, luckily not encountering any more belligerent and borderline homicidal drivers. 

The coffee in my grasp provided the comfort of familiarity as I gazed out the storefront, perched on a metal barstool. The cold day lessened prospects for people watching, instead I stared at the salt stained asphalt while taking incremental sips from my mocha. There was little fodder to feed my fantasist inclination, but that did not stop me from imagining that some dark brooding devil in mortal guise might enter the coffee shop. Maybe I fantasized about such things because I could only imagine that I might be recognized by someone "other", that it would take a special, inhuman pair of eyes to be seen in a world I feign invisibility in. Or perhaps it is simply that I need a distraction as grandiose as the supernatural to keep my mind from imploding into its darker corners. As bookish as it is, it is how I have learned to cope with the darkness that follows me, that it might all be building up to a final incitement. I entertain the thought of being saved, but it is a fantasy just like the notion of a god of Asgard crossing my path. Though still, with coffee in hand and rapt eyes, I wait.