Thank You For Being Alive

Outside the great world is worshiping Master Santa. I’m at home: solitary, warm, temporarily content with my lot in life.

Not that I’m going to indulge in “Bah! Humbug!” I’m too detached from Xmas to resent it. And too grounded in capitalist pragmatism to whatever I think of various things my comfort and well-being are grounded in quotidian toils of economic excess.

I’m even in a grateful mood.

I’m so glad to have been blessed with my kind of pansexuality. To have realized parts of it and face the prospect of as yet untasted erotic experiences.

And - I may have two friends who really understand this - so glad for the gender outlaws. Some I’ve loved, others I’ve only glimpsed once as they walked down the street. I remember some of them from very long ago. A fifteen second sight of someone forever burned into my brain. That they merely exist has always cheered me.

I feel like a man who has been consigned to world where the majority can see only black and white while I can see the spectrum.

Many of these creatures of my fancy are noticed as freaks if at all. They aren’t necessarily pretty as the mankind judges such things. They have weak chins, bad hair. They are painfully shy or outrageously assertive.

I’m their silent, unknown admirer. And that is OK with me.