genius of literature.

Sometimes I wonder what you thought those days where the wall that connected our classrooms was pushed back and we became one giant room in tandem with each other, like two people who combined surprisingly well, but never fit in on the exact same line, when you could observe a small girl in the corner of the room poring over a thick books whilst the rest of the class was watching a movie. What was going through your mind?

"She seems talented,"?

"How is her writing able to amaze all the teachers?"?

"Why is she reading when that's not even what the rest of the class is doing?"?

"She looks lonely"?

No matter at 12am or at 2pm, no matter who's around me, I'll still feel the same loneliness, the same isolation I've been experiencing since birth. Red strings pull me away from everyone, leaving me grasping at the threads and climbing onto "talent" to meet new people, even though, at the end, the string always pulls me back further and further, entangling me and choking me. Filling up my throat with talent, talent, talent.

Yes, I know I'm lonely and choking, and barely breathing, but, in a way, I'm the happiest I've ever been, because the lonely me is the real me.

Who is the real you, and are they happy? Does "talent" curse them as well?