I want so desperately to believe the illusion.
To think I can be one of those people.

I like to listen to other people. The things they say.
What they did. Where they went. Who they were with.

I kid myself sometimes.
I let myself believe I'm one of them.

Till I'm staring at a bottle of scotch at a table alone.
The bottle reminds me. It's just a dream.

I drink but I do not curse them. I don't blame them.
I wouldn't want me there either.

Still though.
What it must be like.

I won't find out in this lifetime.
In this life it's just me and the Jameson.

Family gatherings. Holidays. Parties.
I watch them on tv and wonder.

What is that like?
To be surrounded by people who want you there.

Every acquaintance I have is paid for.
I rent out the illusion of inclusion.

I pretend that where I am is where I'm wanted.
Until I've fixed the railing or solved the problem.

Or handed over the cash.
Once this is done the illusion vanishes.

I'm asked to leave.
"You should go."

I hear that a lot.
Until the next time.

When they'll need money, ****, or me to fix something.
Then I can relish in the ideology.

For a moment.
I have a purpose.