Hilario the Misfit

            "He's so hilarious!", they never said, painting the misfit's thoughts in white, bright red. Hilario is the lame joke that no one laughs at over dinner. He is the darkness in the tunnel, no matter how bright the light is at the end of it. Hilario is your train of thought, your great escape. His brain ticks like a bomb which never explodes. He is the tremor to your hands when you're a victim of anxiety; the key to the treasure of the heart of your loved one. He is the sound you hear when you're being consumed by the silence around you, and he is what makes you feel lonely when you've lost a special someone. He's the driver of your train of thought; the neurostimulant in your nicotine patch which you so half-heartedly put on to keep up with your brain. He's the mirror which turns your smile upside down; your soul inside out. He is what makes one person's right hand lock with another person's wrong one. Always. He is the rustle of the leaves; the faith that makes you go down on your knees. He's the mercy you beg for, when you're all out of a metaphor.
            Hilario is a thought so real, a facet so fake. But he has no face. Look around you when you're in a crowd, and pick a face. Now place that face in front of a mirror, and lock your eyes with the mask of terror. That's him. He is the cruel reflection of the perfect world we live in; a world that has no subtlety or discretion. The Misfit's neither male nor female; neither science nor art. He's nothing but a mere deduction of your conscious mind just so that you can make sense of the nonsensical nonsense that eats your senses away. His name is of mockery on the existence of satire; the sadness that exists within hilariousness and desire. He's born a misfit, someone who doesn't belong. But he's everywhere. He's in the smile of the girl who gets back someone who's gone for too long, and in the disappointment of the boy who misses the same girl's smile because she's long gone. He's the string that hauls you back to the past when you look at the photograph inside your wallet when you croon, or when you listen to your favourite Owl City number in a Saltwater Room. He's a face in the crowd, the hammer on your leg. A celebration of monotony that makes you down a peg. The vodka shot that requires lime, a string of words that need a rhyme. Don't lose your senses, he'll never quit.

He's Hilario, after all, who's born a misfit.