You live in a universe apart from everyone else.
You’re like a young butterfly, iridescent and airborne and headed for the stratosphere. Your thoughts are not cast away by a mind that has been trained to reject every spark of whimsy and inspiration. You cherish them, use them to write your blemished but beautiful tales.
When the rest of humanity obsesses over external interaction, you sink into the vibrant depths of your own mind. You prop your elbows on your desk and stare into your imagination with reverent inquisition.
You are helplessly attracted to anything bright.
At dawn, you sometimes crawl from between your covers and creep to the window to watch the sun rise out of the blackness on your side of the world. You observe it, describing it to yourself as though it’s some godly event. Which it really is—the glowing orb straining upwards as dove gray sky gives way to a fiery knife-edge on the horizon. You hum a faint strain of Hedwig’s Theme as darkness falls to the wayside, shadows retreating. The town’s artificial lights fade to insignificance as the sun takes its place above the treeline.
Anyone watching would be transfixed by the chestnut of your curls agleam and your eyes, glistening with private joy. The sun’s rays paint the street gold, and you sit there taking it in, bursting with this strange, wild love as you try to remember how to breathe.
You are, quite simply, a creature of the sun.
While others toil in the dull shade of reality, you linger in the light.
It is where you belong.