You make me want to be normal.
Except that I will never be. I have lived my life taking pleasure and pride in being adamantly "AB". I have taken circuituous roads and unknown short cuts just for the pure heck of not walking the road oft taken. I lived a life of irony and oxymorons --- and I take great comfort from it. And now, I am trying to fit myself into a mold which is obviously too incompatible with my girth or depth, in so many more ways than one.
I'm allergic to boxes. Or to be more specific, being inside a box. I have spent too much energy bursting out of them for me to suddenly want to crouch inside and pull down the flaps until all light is shut out. But if you are inside, logic fails, and I find myself enduring the cramp and the inky endless night just to be shut in with you. Inside the box, I cannot breathe, but then you smile and I ask myself, who needs air?
I wish I could bring you out of the box with me. I try sometimes, but the language is different and uninteresting for you. I've tried showing you the swirly clouds just before a storm, and the delicate inner workings of a flower, and I tried to explain sunlight, or the color of babies' laughter and you just look at me as if I am insane. Which of course I am. Would it be so wrong if you went insane too, just a little bit, just enough to see the second shadow beyond the surface of your glistening world?
There is a universe inside us. By closing my eyes and delving inside, I see moonlight and sunbursts, burning comets and the occasional blackhole. How can you put that inside a box? How can I ever be someone who lives inside a compartment in somebody's head?
I will never fit the mold you seek, that's clear. And you will never abandon your confinement, that too is certain. We're two very different creatures, air and earth, and although able to co-exist side by side, we can never really be the same element. In a moment of unhinged reasoning, I thought air and earth can mix to create beautiful glass sculptures of wind and sand. But for that to happen, we need fire, and something's telling me that's not something you'll do.
Not for me.
And here we must leave it be.