Writing has always been something that occurs fully in my mind. I think about things, I dream them, I experience. Then I take it all and I put into words through cranial processes that suit my schedule and my desperate need to sort every little thing in my life into compartments to help me cope with the overwhelming jumble that is thought.

I am different from a lot of people; I’ve understood this concept since childhood. How can I not when there are thousands of others in my peripheral vision displaying normalcy meanwhile I sit in darkness considering the realness of Peter Pan or I run around pretending my world is ending soon, pretending I am sick and dying and in need of someone to kiss me before I can awaken and regain my grasp on truth. Close in definition is my eagerness to get away to the next big thing. Gradually, I have found that living in the now rather than ten years ahead is the more genuine act… but is it the most responsible?

It’s funny to me, seeing those in dream states that can’t escape and in fact don’t have a desire to do so. They revel in their situation and they bask in the glory that is ordinary. And here I am, Desperately Seeking my Susan which is the extraordinary. Something to sort out the strangeness and unrelatable bits of my spirit. I don’t have the same life as a lot of other humans surrounding me. I love classical music, as many do. But I don’t just listen to classical music. I take it and I dance with it. I leap into mid-air for the duration of a piece and I imagine I am somewhere else.

I dream in vivid color and I dream in dull black-and-white. I overthink and I say the wrong thing and I say the right thing. I sit alone in the darkness and wonder if the world will end at this very second. I wish I could tell my deepest secrets to the people I love most; my appeal to their utmost keeps me from granted wishes and mindfulness kills them every time. I care too much for what people say about me and I let them scare me.

I want deeply to make things and I want them to be good. Things that will make others sit in the darkness even if just for a moment, and think. And write. And act. And chase the dust that appears in the morning sunshine rays. But alas, I cannot. Not without my own version of hope. That is, not without the kindness that is human interaction.