Prejudice

I sit by myself in the corner of the room.

Not a soul is here, only the hustling and bustling of lonely, busy people talking about their own life and expecting it to fall on interested ears. Not these ears.

Others may feign their interest, through social imperative or otherwise, but they are not truly interested. In that respect we are the same animal, but in that respect only.

Our choices of action following that fact are largely different. I choose not to hide my disinterest, but instead to let silence display my contempt. My contempt for their clothing, the mascot of social conformity; my contempt for their hidden faces – insecurity masking itself as ostentation, as it does so often, pock-marking life, detracting from its beauty.

Most of all, though: my contempt for their immediately unwelcoming prejudice, drawing their selfish, uninformed conclusions about the way I am, simply from the way I choose to dress, act or smile in mockery at them.