My Vociferous Inner voice

Most people tell me certain things when I meet them, interact with them. I've been told that I am dumb, that I'm smart, that I'm funny, that my jokes are bad, that I'm kinda cute, that I shouldn't talk to them anymore, that I'm quiet, that I'm calm and composed, that I think a lot, that I'm serious, and that I'm sarcastic. There, I'm all of those things.

I'm not good with people, but I am great with persons. I can talk to you alone on the rooftop for hours. But place me in a party and you'll hardly notice me. I'd be occupying a corner, highly anxious, fearing the moment someone comes up to me and says some incomprehensible nonsense like "hey, what's up?".

I can't do small talk. Sorry, I don't know "what's up". Talk to me about love, about stars, about madness, about magic, about life and about death and what's beyond. Talk to me about what keeps you up at night. Tell me what you truly feel. That's what I love to listen to and talk about.

I like to think of myself as a logical person and I've been told on numerous occasions that I certainly am so. And it's often annoying to others. Deep down, sometimes, I too find this logical person annoying, and that is the moment when I run away from it. I wander away to lands created by pen strokes and contoured by words. I live as my true self in those pages, in that piece of fiction, in those lyrical poems. With a pen and paper, when I'm writing a story, that is the moment I feel free. I am free, in the truest sense of the word.

I write to vent my feelings, to discover myself, to escape reality. I write to be me.

Honestly, I'm not going to say anything that hasn't been said before. I'm not here to spark revolutions and revolts. I don't have anything new to give to this world, all I have is my honesty and my meager

 understanding with which I will present my ideas and my emotions through my words. These words are all I have to offer.