Solitude

It doesn't matter where she is. Nor matter how large the crowd.

Some days, it is as though her head is a goldfish bowl; public property for anyone to gawp and marvel at. But how can they see past the murk? How could you possibly tell if there's anything alive in there? And if they could, if they did, would they tell her? Or back off in confusion.

And her heart. It beats there, on the outside of her cardigan sleeve. Sometimes it hollers at people as their lives brush shoulders with hers:

"Today I'm sad! Today I need you!"

"I'm out of sorts, out of synch, out of kilter. I've lost my rhythm, lost direction, lost my marbles. I'm beginning to wonder if I had any rhythm to start with. Or direction for that matter - how did you know which route to take? Did you know from childhood? Did someone help you? Can you help me?"

But it falls on deaf ears. Or maybe her heart's frequency is set to another channel?

Occasionally, the channels cross with sparks of static electricity and her eyes light up with hope. But almost invariably the dial spins on past hers. Her station is not churning out enough crowd-pleasing material. She doesn't have the will to spin it. She wants the content to be accepted for what it is.

So she hitches on the smile and stands in the middle of the crowd in the playground, the life and soul.

Alone.