I am

I inhale politics and history and books like they’re necessary for my life. My mind somehow sees connections and solutions quickly, sometimes more quickly than a lot of the adults I know. Words flow out of me the same way a painter’s watercolors covers the canvas. 

But, in the end, I’m still a teenage girl. I’m still the kind of person that takes intense delight in the way a love story unfolds on the screen. And goosebumps do take the shape of the Appalachian mountains on my skin when that one person touches me. I’m taken away by the poems that certain men write, and I still do idolize people in ways that a psychologist would constitute ‘mentally unstable.’ 

But in the end, I’m still a woman. I’m still the type of human that becomes increasingly irate when people don’t consider me adequate enough. I’m still the type of person that finds slow drivers the bane of my very existence. I dislike many people, adore several and love less. 

But in the end, I’m still a dreamer. I’m still the type of astronaut that would simply cherish the chance to be among the stars. I have to believe that there is an impossible cosmic sort of destiny. I know that my feet will press against the rind of another planet and my feet will crunch against their dirt as I behold their cities. I still hope that one day I will be able to fly and feel the wet water sky against my skin.

But in the end, I’m still a writer. I’m still the type of author that carries pen and pencil with me most everywhere. I have days where so many ideas for so many different things come to me that I sit and scribble out the outlines while they’re still fresh in my head. I still read fairytales simply to teach myself how to paint a story in words. 

But in the end, I’m still human. I’m still the type of individual who thinks I’m hopelessly insufficient for certain things and insufferably superior in others. I look to the people I love for their approval of my actions. I’m afraid of embarrassment and automatically correct people who make grammatical errors, and then blush when I make them. 

In the end, I’m a bunch of contradictions all smashed together in my body. Full of impossible hopes and dreams. While still maintaining what I hope is a grip on real life. Daydreams deluge me in worlds where color is more real than in life, and bliss is constant. Reality is harder, it’s a place I’d prefer to only visit. But the thing about life is, sometimes you don’t get to chose. Sometimes you’re left with harsh Reality and daydreams.