There’s that person in the corner, the Mr. Darcy stereotype with the detached derision, the tumbleweed on manicured grass, the one you would denounce vociferously though you have neither the luxury nor skill for emulation.
What about the molten-hearted entertainer in the centre, who wears both his success and failure like butterflies on his sleeve, the one towards whom the crowd gravitates, standing on tiptoe, sloshing their wine, hoping to make eye contact.
See the diffident wannabe trying hard to fit in, wondering which one might be a safer bet. There are three kinds of people here, Marcus. Which kind are you?
All of them. There are three kinds of people within you- the person you are, the one you can never be and the one you wish you already were. The people you’re looking at are just mirrors.
One third of a mirror each, surely.
the river pauses
between mountain and sea
the way forward is the way back