Izzy knew he was an outsider; however, he feared being viewed as such. If he had to go out into the world, it was always alone. He knew, also, that everyone was alone, fearing, maybe just as he. Maybe, being lonely was his fate:
For Izzy B., the days seemed too long, and the nights too quiet; his solitude, if he wasn't careful, became oppressive; his room, stifling.
One day, he'd be able to tell his story. But, for now, in the silence of his room, Izzy couldn't get the words out,---frustrated, he throws the parchment across the room, tipping it, into the wastepaper basket---the very act of writing, of communicating, his feelings, as such, becoming muted in their tones, like stoic soldiers, marching on, marching on.
[To be Continued...]
May 5, 2010.