Different

I feel deep tonight. Like the type of deep you get when you can finally take some time to think about life and all of it's meaning. The who's, what's, when's, where's, and why's that spiral around in an ominous orb that floats above our heads constantly causing us to question what the next movement we make will be. A fortuitous bubble that only God can pop, or grow.

Or something like that

To do such a bold thing would take much more than a simple dance of digits across an idle keyboard into a parallel world of words and thoughts.

It takes time, something I've found that I take for granted. Especially now as my life fills with arrangements, priorities, and incessant things to do. Is that necessary bad? No, I enjoy staying busy. Yet, I wouldn't say a lack of reflection time is all together grand either.

But tonight, the quiet came.

I was walking home from a coffee date with an old high school friend (I hadn't seen her for years, but I'm happy to say we picked up right where we left off) and came across this house.

It catches my eye every time I walk past it. So beautifully out of place it sits facing a line of suburbia type townhouses. An unkempt lawn with a chain link fence that winds it's way around the the perimeter. I'm not sure if it's inhabited (if so, it's probably weird that I'm posting a picture of their house on the internet....eh, oh well), but I hope the owners never change it.

It's a reminder to me that, as a human race we aren't meant to be the same. I never understood why people made fun of others for their differences, especially the ones that they are gifted with from birth. I don't say it as something they can't help, because I don't see why we should have to help the"differences" we're naturally born with. As if each little imperfection required an apology.

I'm left handed. Now, was that something I was born with? I'm not sure, all I know is that my mom has a picture of me eating yogurt left handed in my highchair when I was little. But it's something I was definitely made fun of for. On top of that I write with a left-hander's hook so it wasn't uncommon for kids to look at me and ask me why I write so weirdly. I know that this is nothing compared to racial persecution or homosexual harassment, but nonetheless it made me question myself. As if a specific hand could define me as a person, but because I broke the right-handed mold I was different.

Normalcy, in my opinion, is a relative term. What is normal for one person can be completely outrageous for the next dependent on lifestyle, beliefs, cultures, what have you. Everyone has different needs, and we must recognize that there is no such thing as a human cure-all.

Besides, what's the fun in having a million copies of the same person?

We are beautiful because we aren't alike.