I used to think I was different.
And it seemed to be so.
And perhaps I am.
I’m supposed to be a grown up.
Practical and driven.
It’s what I was taught to do.
Except I never stopped looking at the fluff on moths,
And the light on a bird’s wings.
I found geckos hunting in the roof of leaf huts,
And I stared at the sky in awe of the magic of existence.
Perhaps I’m not so different.
Perhaps I simply never lost my curiosity.
