Alien Thoughts

An alien sits like aliens often do –exactly the way humans do because humans know everything exists pseudonym to themselves. As alien as he (it?) is he too likes to think himself human. In the quieter, stiller moments of his life he avoids humans while embracing them whole and envying them completely. He touches their soul from a distance. He enjoys the connection, or at least the thought of it. He cannot understand why. These people are not even his people. They fascinate him. They must no t know that he is an alien. They don’t think it strange at an arm’s distance that they feel no heat from him. They don’t think he’s made the decision for them. The distance, they believe, is their choice.

His head is bulbous and his legs long. Most just think him strange. All view him with the trepidation spared and collected for the daunting –for the terrible. He is a rollercoaster that no one has survived. He is an adventure for thrill seekers and for those looking for something else to blame for suicide.

Periodically he asks them in his best “this is hypothetical” voice, “have you ever felt like an alien”? He searches their replies for the answers he wants to hear. He searches for the answers he hopes he doesn’t already have. He wants to build a bridge; he wants to pseudonym the world the way they do.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to speak to him in a voice he recognizes. I imagine that he just listens to me not responding to the words he’s actually saying. He must know I cannot hear his deepest thoughts and concerns. The way I respond must be strange to him. I assume he knows. But he listens anyway. He responds and tells what I assume are stories anyway. We meet here at this coffee shop every Saturday afternoon. I talk. He makes notes that pitch in a pattern that sounds like a band with a single player and thousand instruments.

I think there might be a connection here. I think he enjoys his space rubbing up against my space. We sit in the afterbirth of invisible boundaries begging to be broken. I wonder if he ever thinks about what it’s like to be a human. He must. Right? Maybe he’s just studying me. Maybe he doesn’t want to connect. Maybe we are meant to be strangers.

Hmm. I wonder…