He ran his hands along the fabric of their existence, caressing the invisible strings that connected all things and sending reverberating melodies strumming before him. He smiled, sad and euphoric. The song was beautiful, the song of life, of connectivity, but he would never get to share it with anyone else. Long had he traveled the world looking for someone like him, someone who could see the threads of life, the connections and interdependencies, and had never met anyone who could see as he did. The magic of who he was did little to quell the loneliness.
He stood apart, disconnected from the grid. He could walk through it, manipulate it, and, with a brush of his hand, send a thousand songs cascading forward, but he was not a part of it. In all his wandering, he was the only living thing he had come across that was not intertwined with the rest of the grid.
When he had been young, he had tried to tell his parents and friends about what he was seeing. They all just said he had a vivid imagination. When he got older he considered trying to bring it up again but had grown less naïve in the intervening years and was loathe to risk being labelled as something he was not or being drugged into conformity. As lonely as it was to be the only thing set apart from the rest of the world, he didn’t want to give that up, didn’t want to lose his unique view. Not to say that the world wasn’t beautiful for everyone else as well but getting to see how all things were joined and hearing the music that came with those connections must, absolutely must, enhance the experience of that beauty.