She is profoundly devoid of the human hunger for contact
Abhorring the inertia social interaction requires
Superficial chit chat just to keep a job down drains her soul
All exclaim her people artistry skill
She instinctively absorbs the form of others and their texture pervade her being
She doesn’t understand how she sees their blueprint, but she reads them, rights them and they are inexplicably drawn to her
She spends hours alone seemingly with nothing to do and finds the need of others to be with her an anomaly
Yet, give her a book, a film, anything that doesn’t need a human contribution, and she’ll cry you a river
She knows she’s searching, she knows she’s meant to be doing something
But her own texture eludes her and as she grows older her sadness deepens