Am I a “real” person, alone inside my house?
Or….
Inconsequential. Unquantified. Unqualified?
DISQUALIFIED!!!
Do my words dissolve, vanishing in disgrace?
An unread pile of letters, in shreds. Out of place.
Can I not contribute, even from here behind the scenes?
Can I not be seen, as a living, breathing, human being?

My worth, inconsequential. 
My presence and personhood, unsubstantial.
Though I do exist, 
Though I continue and persist on living.
Not giving in. I am not alive? Striving?
Or am I merely a rejected member of the hive?

*They say I am not a real person. That what I write is not important, it is void of meaning. It has no influence or effect. Nobody to notice, nothing to respect. In effect, I am merely a speck of dust, separate from the rest. 

Can I not connect, be seen? Even if only through my writing? Do my words disintegrate because I’m reclusive and don’t integrate? Do I cease to matter if I don’t play the game? Become anonymous, without a name. Who can that be, but nothing? A nameless nothing.

Is that how you see me, when you say I am not real?
A nameless nothing?

Such a Dehumanizing exclusion to say one does not exist. Unwelcomed and silenced. No acceptance or inclusion. 

Does a tree cease to exist if you leave the forest? Or does it continue to provide us with clean air so we can continue breathing? 

Can I not be that tree? For this time away, as a recluse? Can grace be given, my absence excused?

You know what? What we “contribute” to society should not matter. If we exist, we matter, simply because we exist. What about the elderly, Goddammit? What about the infirm, the disabled, the mentally ill unable to work for whatever reason? We are all invalids, right? INVALID???? BULLSHIT! 

Why does our worth diminish if we need to hide? If we need to heal? If we are too Goddamn tired from our lives?

And who has the right to say we are not contributing, or have not contributed when we were able. There are quieter ways of contributing too. Unseen ways. 

I do want to make connections, and I am trying. I do not want to play the society game though. It is exhausting. I’m still recovering from all the years of trying like hell to fit into the world. My younger years were chaotic with an awful lot going on. There are many reasons.  Please be patient. Be kind. I am alive and I do exist. I am here, writing these words so that I can be seen. If I were writing in a Café or an office, would that make my words appealing to you? More pleasing? The content worth reading?

If I joined a club and interacted, 
Then would my existence be substantiated? 

I do not follow society's guidelines. I live in the way I can live. And right now, it is here in my home, spending my days writing, thinking, BEING. BEING. Define “BEING.” “The nature or essence of a person.”

Okay? Does that clear things up? By writing these words, I am officially announcing my existence as a person. An alive, breathing, being.