Their new haircut or hairdo doesn’t need much work. A few tussles and … there, good. Now there’s the outfit they have picked out — a nice suit, a dress, a kilt. Whatever it is, to them it’s the regalia of someone who is very much alive. Wearing these clothes, they walk purposefully around their house, their room, or if they’re lucky, their neighborhood — if only the porch — and there, they wait.
They wait, and they wait, and they wait, slowly realizing it’s going to be another day where the streams of people coming and going to places that seem to make up life are apart from them. They’ve put on their best clothes out there before, in that world, and if they were awkward and without much to say about whatever fashion or trend, they were nice enough. Nice enough, but … a bit strange in the non-fashionable way. No fluent speaker of the fashionable language, and they do not look uniform enough to coast, so they are often awkwardly standing there as people move around them.
When they saw the people in nice clothes going to work, they thought there was no difference between that group and them (There isn’t, except perhaps in luck).
Even the people who are not in business casual attire seem to be going somewhere so steadfastly. Isn’t that all there is to it?
They tried, but they could never concentrate enough, or be motivated enough, or learn all the right moves, or be strong enough, or not be sad enough. There are a few people who cut through their solitude — the only ones who sway with their OCD, which makes rare sense in the world that never seems to move with them. Those people try to cheer them up. Cheery furnishings make just existing/surviving more than that, don’t they?
They hoped that their nicest clothes were, if not enough, a considerable part of this whole fitting in business — this business of living. But all they get is a bit more more than complete solitude, and while such can be quite warm, they never find themselves laughing with someone out there, or walking along feeling like there are possibilities for them to be more, to make more than cheery furnishings for the homes of those who only had views to nowhere, for the world to be more. Their nice clothes begin to fray, as clothes do, and they don’t replace them. They look like bums, non-fashionably.
The nuance to their being a bit strange is, perhaps, not having the luck to shuffle a few crappy cards.
Is luck all? No, it is a lot. But with nuance, it’s not all. Nuance, that non-fashionable weight.