Who defines normal? Who, in a world of imperfect human beings bound to do wrong in one way or another, has the given authority to define what is or what is not NORMAL?
I always was different. I knew I was. Choosing heels over sneakers, blouses over t-shirts, handbags versus backpacks – it was a constant struggle for me. Do you need to fit in a certain criteria to be called normal – to be accepted? Why, yes; it’s a lesson everyone learns.
I was the quiet one. The loner. The intelligent one. The smart one. I aced every exam, every quiz, I even won spelling bees and essay contests; but these achievements for me just weren’t enough. It didn’t satisfy my thirst for a solid real friendship.
One whom I won’t just have fun time together, or spend bad weather – I needed something meaningful. I did not just want it, I needed it, I craved for it – like how the sky begs for the sun to shine in the morning, and how we beg the moon to crawl up the sky to light the night. That was what I wanted. Yes, I did make friends but guess what, we’re strangers now.
I didn’t want a friend who defined me within a certain construct, more so a ‘social construct.’ I didn’t need a friend who judged what was normal or not. I needed a friend who is just a friend, who is always there for me and never forgot about me. If you think that’s out of the ‘normal’ boundaries, then I don’t know what else is.