Beauty is subjective. And when I think of what others see as beauty, I crumple because I want to feel what others feel. Why do they look at the brilliant sun and the curvaceous trails…and sense wonder? I see discomfort. I see dirt. And I push myself to find their wonder and leave disappointed when I don\’t feel it the same within myself.
It\’s a horrible feeling of knowing that I am different. I can\’t help but let the thought is there something wrong with me seep beneath my skin.
I love urban landscapes. I love people\’s stories. I love the way a personal story ripples more than a lake. The sunsets and sunrises cast hope across the land, but the sunshine reflected across mirrored walls give more pause.
I wish that I could say that I love those things that everybody says that is incredible. But in the end, all I feel is that I am just checking off a list. And the payoff is completely lost on me.