The Artist

Her world was lonely. It is always lonely when you see the way others cannot.

She was an artist. She loved being an artist. The world was hers to see and explore.

It can be so magical sometimes, seeing what others cannot. Feeling all which is there. Observing, wondering.

She watched people. Watched them all the time. Taking everything in.

Art is so personal. She knew that. She understood that. Many did not. They judged what they could not understand.

She had gotten so good at reading people. There was no need to stare. Her eyes automatically picked up everything, by just a look.

Many are not able to express themselves through art.
It is so sad how square some people are, she thought.
They must be so sad, not being able to express their thoughts and feelings.

She felt for them. Felt their pain.

Unable to think or see outside the box.
That is something she could not understand.
Or bear the thought of.

She loved that she could see and feel in a way so many could not.

A lonely life though, being different.