I‘ve always been different. Whether in a good or bad way, I’m not quite sure. I always find myself set aside from everyone else. I feel out of place most of the time. I put extra effort into socializing and often fail nonetheless.
I’m told it’s because I’m special. I thought differently compared to others my age. Not to mention I handle responsibilities beyond my reach.
I’m full of envy. That in turn leads me to questions. What would it be like to lead a normal life? Be ordinary. Inconspicuous. What would it be like to be carefree and reckless? Would my heart beat frantically, my cheeks flush from excitement? Would I make gleeful squeals that would put smiles on anyone who hears me?
I’m full of pity. Pity for all the chances I let slip. For all the time I wasted, what a pity. If only I was brave enough to swallow the pain of fresh bruises. Perhaps I’d feel the pride of showing off my scars and reliving stories of adventures.
On top of all this, I feel the need to blame only myself. For not trying to change the course of the wind. For merely accepting and letting it carry me wherever it wanted me to go. It’s just the wind, after all.