I’m different in more ways than I can count. I feel things in ways that people around me cannot. In many ways I’m unique, weird even, but in another way I’m the same.
I’ve have my share of trials throughout my life like others. Yet, I still try to find the best of everything. Sometimes I crumble and am unable to see the silver linings. Other times, I sore.
I cherish those around me, more apt to stand up for them than myself.
I’m different in how I see the world around me from the few drop on a leaf to the political situation our country is in.
I’m different in so many ways but I’m the same.
Being a writer, I can see the good and the bad in people. I can create the good and bad into my characters.
We all have our strengths and our weaknesses. We all have our opinions.
From time to time the people around me have had to learn the hard way that I will pull back from them. Not because of anxiety or anything like that, but because I need time to sort out my thoughts.
I am different. I am unique. I am me.
In the world of writers, we are as diverse as we can be. Some of us want to be around people, some of us want to hide away. But those that hide must at some point face the light.
In the farthest fantasies, we still need reality to keep us grounded. To keep us alive.
I am different.
I sometimes forget to eat, repeating to myself that I will after this next scene. Sometimes I forget to tell people happy birthday or to tell the ones that I love that I do more often.
I am forgetful. I always have a notebook around me. I have my own being.
I am different. And forever shall I hope to be.