She wanted to die.
He wanted to live.
•••
A hand grabbed onto my wrist, yanking me back just as the train rushed past, before I'd even had time to comprehend whether or not I'd carry out the action. I stumbled back into the person's chest, my hear...
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It's frightening how fast our thoughts can begin to spiral.
How the tiniest seed of doubt can blossom into a full-blown insecurity, probing and prodding at the inside of your brain until it becomes uncontainable. My mind was always capable of finding things about myself to pick on, leaving me squirming under the magnifying glass that I placed above myself, resulting in me blurting out the mild thought that intensified more as the seconds went by.
"I don't think I'm normal."
Romeo titled his head before he glanced at me achingly slow, still holding my journal after having just finished reading the poem. "What makes you say that?"
"I just opened up to you and out of all the responses I could have had, my first thought was to write poetry," I explained, ignoring how Romeo sent me a look in protest at my judging tone. "That's not normal."
"There's nothing wrong with being creative," Romeo argued, "Finding a way to channel your thoughts into productivity is a positive thing. If writing is how you help yourself find peace, then carry on."
"But it's not normal," I insisted, adamant with my point. "Especially writing so many poems," I gestured to the nearly full book of my late-night ramblings held between Romeo's hands, "I doubt any kids my age would be able to say they've done the same."
Wherever I was, I had always been able to find ways of putting my thoughts into poetry, whether that meant typing a note on my phone or writing on the corner of a textbook in the middle of class. Poetry had been a stable coping mechanism of mine for several years, and yet I'd never really questioned the abnormality of it until this moment.
Romeo shot me a look. "Define normal."
"Not me," I reiterated matter-of-factly, watching as Romeo held the bridge of his nose and exhaled heavily as though I was causing him physical pain.
All my life I'd never belonged. I was the one piece no one could figure out where to place in the puzzle, the anomaly in a group of results, the inconvenience that hindered everyone around me. I wasn't talkative enough, or funny enough, or pretty enough, or happy enough - or maybe, I simply wasn't normal. My obsession with poetry could just be the tip of the iceberg, with a thousand more reasons awaiting to define me as abnormal.
"Okay then," Romeo complied begrudgingly, realising my mind had already been made up. "What do you think makes a person normal?"
"Being mentally sane," I started off, "Not wanting to die, not spending hours each night going on trains leading to random places, being able to sleep properly, being okay with not achieving perfection, not having daily panic attacks, not hating yourself-" In simpler terms, not being me. I paused, turning to look at Romeo. "Should I keep going or do you get the point?"
"Doing or having those things doesn't necessarily mean you're not normal," Romeo disagreed, "Loads of other people probably fit into half of the things you mentioned; that doesn't mean they're not normal. Being normal is subjective: what I think is normal, you might completely disagree with."
