Gazing in at the world from the outside through a sepia tinted filter that some call exclusion and some call uniqueness, I watch the hyenas knot tightly into bickering, gossiping cliques. They're planning their next move. Too cowardly to destroy targets full of life, confidence and strength, they know that the easy victims are the ones who are already broken. The ones who have been shattered into a million and one pieces, yet somehow drag themselves along, slowly swallowed by the shadow that torments them. These, the hyenas know, will be the ones that cannot hold up their spiderweb defenses against the bitter words that are hurled from the scavengers' lipsticked mouths. 

The hyena's leader cackles as she pulls out a pocket mirror and, peering into it, painstakingly powders her picture-perfect face. Beside her, a fledgling totters around in six-inch-high magenta heels - apparently it's the 'new thing': the new must-adhere to phase in the twisted book of society's rules. Butt-cheeks and breasts hang out from all-too-human garments (that, to the innocent and unaccustomed eyes of those outside the pack, appear to be several sizes too small) that barely clothe all-too-human figures. Matchstick human figures. Small, skinny, unnatural, but dominant human figures that cluster together in the safety of the pack, crouching in the shadows to tear any remaining self-esteem mercilessly from their next victim, to viciously rip away any lingering shreds of hope that cling to their quarry's despairing form. 

Listening to the caustic, all-too-human babble that pours forth from the cluster like a waterfall of toxic waste, I feel as if I could shoot each neon word from the poisoned air and watch them as they tumble, leaf-like, to the dusty ground and bleed into a noxious brown slick. A mire of insults, betrayal and trickery that waits to trap helpless prey and send them skidding towards misery and confusion.

The pack titters and sets off, striding, slipping, stumbling and strutting in their assortment of sky-high shoes, to lie in wait for the next victim. 

I shake my head and back away, glad to be an outsider. 

So now perhaps the strange and bizarre title for the blog makes a little sense? I see things, well, largely differently to a lot of other people. Don't get me wrong, I do have friends, who don't mind that I'm bizarre, and they're wonderful. But the above... writing... thing... (I don't know what to call it, do tell me if you have a clue) is a small insight into the way this jellyfish/outsider/artist/poet/dreamer sees the world around her, spinning in fifty-seven directions at once as the wind and the voices of strangers melt into one and the colours flicker into one never-ending rainbow of black and grey.

^.^