Platonic platitudes: passionate multitudes
Perplexed, agitated and or plain and simply hexed, he wasn't really sure. This was not the first time it was happening. He had encountered many such situations, but had come out a winner always, well nearly always. He was different indeed and he felt it to the bone. The world called him weird, but he ignored it and relentlessly went on. They often jeered; he knew they called him all kind of names. It really didn't matter to him, as he knew the blood that coursed through his veins was just as warm as theirs, was just as blue as theirs; was just as red when he bled. He’d been like this ever since he could remember. As a little boy holding on to his mom’s hand as he entered the little nursery, he walked in with a certain calmness as the other parents were overwhelmed by the surrounding pandemonium, emanating from little, almost devilish creatures, feverishly kicking and hitting or just crying their lungs out. Even as far back as then he would walk into his class and patien...