In the fourth grade I had this beautiful blonde teacher. In the fourth grade I was the class clown. In the fourth grade I had a reason to wake up in the morning.
I promise I made them laugh. I wasn’t a stand up comedian, but I’d stand up and it was a comedy. Maybe that was my favourite remedy. She labeled me an alien and that was so fulfilling.
But now I know a little more even though it’s still less than most. I’m no longer in the fourth grade, but is it possible that I still remain the class clown?
It certainly feels like it. Society’s clown is probably all I can ever live up to. Society’s clown is probably where I can ever live. Because I grew up in ages, but still I ask the question, can I ever be taken seriously, or do I even want to be seriously?
No, seriously. I signed up for a career as a lawyer in suits. Trying to get out of my own skin, but forgetting everything else inside. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to hide. The alien who does not belong. Trying out this human act, trying to read the script, the writer’s hand so that I can live up to whatever my part is in this bloody plot.
I’m probably better off in coincidence instead of trying to put meaning to every circumstance. I’m so oblivious to consequence, and this uncertainty, this comedy I’m living always batters me in sequence.
But I had reason to live… Back then in the fourth grade. If I can rediscover that in the joke that is my life, maybe the beautiful blonde will find me again.