They say that people who stand out aren't right. This is the idea that is crammed into the minds of a generation and clogs all hope for said generation. The generations who hold a supreme rule of the world conjure up several excuses for the lack of conformity in them.
"Child abuse!"
"Neglect!"
"No love! No bonding!"
"They don't just listen to the song, they have to feel the words? What kind of bullshit is that? Music is music, not a saga to live by."
"The weather can't control a person's emotions."
"What's freedom of expression?"
"Gay rights? What a disgrace to the face of the world!"
"They must hate themselves…"
Close minded, close minded, close minded! Stop, stop, stop!
Stop critiquing our generation and live in yours. We weren't born with a choice to share life with you, we were forced into your world. However, we weren't born with knowledge of your standards; we were born with independent thought and that will morph our generation into something spectacular. But what do you go and do? You corrupt us young, you beat 'sense' into us and take away our toys when we are ourselves. So when we grow through experience and pain, you instill your ideals into our once open, hopeful slate. Only the lucky ones survive this act of corruption; they are dubbed 'different'.
"I hate when people stare at me, y'know, like they think they're better. Like they know."
"What is it that they know, Phil?" I ask, analyzing his expression because honestly, this kid is the world's most complicated riddle to solve.
"They look at me like I'm different." He stares at me with kaleidoscope eyes and I stutter in my reflex to them.
"That's because you are different. Obviously. Look at you." He rips his gaze from mine and looks down at the green-speckled tile we're walking on. I sigh and look forward. He always looks down at the ground when his point has been proven because he's too stubborn to admit defeat. "Phil, it's not like a disease or anything, okay? I mean why is people looking at you so horrible? You chose to be the way you are."
He's silent for a moment, lips tightly pressed together like they always are when he's contemplating. "It just bothers me. It's like, why are people so critical of other people?"
A typical couple holding hands passes us, an elderly woman with what I assume to be her grandson passes us - her dainty, lithe hands covering his innocent eyes, and a group of Hollister-clad teeny boppers who have yet to even know the word 'individualism' roll their eyes and giggle their way passed us. I've always been consciously aware of people's expectations for other people based off of society's standards but, for some reason, Phil's once so simple statement has snowballed into an intriguing conundrum.
After he stops staring daggers into the robots, he finishes his story. "I don't get it. I remember my mom telling me to be different, my grade school teachers telling me to grow up and be different. Yet, when I am different, I'm an anathema. When I'm different, I'm not right. When I'm different, I'm-"
"Misunderstood." I cut him off, and he stops walking and stares at me; I cease walking because I'm confused at his actions. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Yes?"
"Yeah."
"Phil, what the hell?" I ask, more than a little annoyed.
"Yeah. Misunderstood. It's like we're put in exile for being independent. We're loners."
A warm smile creeps upon my lips and I curl a stray, off-brown strand of hair behind his ear. "We're not loners if at least we're together."
Phil's the kind of guy that is broad and intimidating, stone cold look always on his features, and a swag in his walk that's a both a promise and a threat. He's got these damn chocolate colored locks, gorgeous enigma eyes, and lightly stale skin covered in ink- he's the spitting image of perfection. In my eyes of course, society would tell you otherwise. But if I had to pick out one flaw, just one, it would be the only thing that completely wrecks his rebel spirit - those angelic dimples. That's good, though, I wouldn't want him any other way.
"C'mon." Phil grasps my wrist and tugs me out of the mall we've been walking aimlessly in for the past twenty minutes.
"Phil, where are you taking me?"
The sky is a painting daubed with grays and splattered with whites, liquid threatening to gush down and wash away all falsehood of the life struggling below it. To me, it is beautiful because it is real, its not storybook-chipper and periwinkle blue. The pulling on my arm halts as an expanse of crackled, faded asphalt fills my vision. There's a solitary pole in the off-center that has '57' stenciled onto it.
"What's this?" I take a few steps and turn around to look at him, he grins.
"Lot fifty-seven." Phil's shoulder brushes mine as he passes me and makes himself comfortable on the asphalt. I look at him with bewilderment. "Just lay with me." He coos, folding his inked arms underneath his head.
I'm quiet; I haven't seen this side of Phil. As I lay down next to him, I rest my head comfortably on his chest, my ear hovering over the thump, thump, thumping of his heartbeat. He's gazing at the sky, the dark, unappreciated sky, and I'm watching the rise and fall of his stomach as he breaths. Words can't explain how much this kid means to me, and I know I mean something to him too because he doesn't do stuff like this with anyone. Phil's the kind of kid that electrocutes you by touch, deafens you by speaking, mutes you by clever naiveté, and leaves you a shell of a human being by simply making you wonder why. He always leaves me wondering how; how did I get him and how do I still have him?
"Baby?" His voice is soft but strong.
"Hmm?" I'm busy tracing the outline of his soul's vibrant scars along his forearm.
"Know what makes this place so cool?" I shift my attention up to his. "It's empty. It's void. It doesn't expect anything from anyone. But yet it's still-"
"Misunderstood. It's broken and not perfect, Phil, it's never going to be right." I murmur against the white, hazy 'X' on his Rancid shirt.
"It's right for me." He caresses my jaw line with his index finger; his lips twitch up in a smile and it's like all the mysteries of his life are being poured into my hands. "You're right for me."
I'm a loser and I blush, but he cups my chin and presses his lips to mine softly, fully, understandingly. A heavy droplet clashes against my cheek and rolls of in relief; two, three, four, five, they attack our kiss in invading eloquence. I don't know whether the sky is praising us or attempting to shoo us from this asphalt void. The life that is searing our lips is what makes me believe that we're being thanked. Thanked for appreciating the gray sky and the crumbled parking lot; thanked for appreciating the misunderstood. Most importantly, thanked for appreciating the misunderstood in each other.
That's all that matters in the end.