Here I am lost in the wind
’round in circles sailing

— randall stewart newman

—

They’re misfit toys, a group yearning to be heard and to fit in somewhere in an insane world they never asked for. I remember that feeling too well from when I was young.

They have gathered here on their own little island, a place where different is normal and normal is not allowed in the door, at least without a mask. They seem happy, in a discontented Generation Whatever This Generation Is sort of way. How happy could you be when peering into the abyss of an increasingly bleak future?

“Enjoy yourself. Respect pronouns. Be kind.” The Zine Fest program seems so simple. So hopeful. So impossible.

I want to tell them things will get better. They’ll find their place; they’ll learn to inspire when possible and conform when necessary. And then, they’ll get old. We all get old. Who knew?

But I don’t say anything. I wander aimlessly through the rows of true believers, admiring their art and the spirit that still burns so brightly in them. I remember that flame that once was in me as well. Barely.

I wander outside and sit in the alley, still a misfit toy, still yearning to be heard.

Orange like the sunset my life has become.