It’s a gorgeous Friday morning. The air is crisp and clean. The sunrays pierce through the tall trees. It’s going to be a great day. I press play, and take it nice and easy on the road. As I listen to my favorites, my thoughts drift. I melt into a familiar world. The images are pleasing, a place just for me… I drift often, I’m used to it because I’ve always been a drifter, always. As a child, I regularly went to the lake, which was across the street from the building where I grew up. I would spend hours there, looking at the sparkling water swaying back and forth, or picking wild chamomile for my mother. My childhood best friend and I liked to sit on a huge rock, right at the edge of the water and stare straight ahead, because it created an illusion of sailing. That lake was the view from my bedroom window. Each night I looked out at the reflection of the moon in the water. I wrote my first poem, perhaps at the age of seven, while resting on that window seal. It was a short verse about the moon and stars shining, and how I couldn’t sleep…
I’m tiered of explaining myself why I am who I am or why I think the way I think. If they force me to stop then they might as well kill me. If you tell a bird to stop flying, the only way to do it is to tie its wings. I can’t be someone I’m not. People have two choices, they accept it, or they don’t listen and walk away. The choice belongs to them, but changing me is not an option.