Crack in the Wall

This day is a little colder than some.  It is the kind of day where you wished you had fixed the little cracks and gaps that let the cold breeze in.  A fortress, a castle, shouldn’t be so exposed to the elements.  It should be smooth without chinks. 

My castle and home, though of wood and shingles and other indistinguishable elements that don’t differ it from the myriad of other sandy stuccoed homes that rise and fall on bulldozed hills and their joining valleys; ‘till from above the neighborhoods and cities join into an aboriginal painting of trails and cul-de-sacs of witchy grubs.  It is a perfect camouflage of apparent normality; chameleonism.  This stronghold gains its strength from stealth, as assassins and opium smokers have for millennia.  The first rule of stealth is to fool yourself so that sincerity is the first evidence of your assumption of a false skin.

My person is equal to my home in a view of similarity.  I clothe myself in blue-jeans and t-shirt and well known sport shoes like all my neighbors.  My hair and grooming is in the style of my new peers.  I have taken on their manner of speech, even a cute little hissing after certain words like a cowboy from west Texas; sameness in difference.