People call me strange. They say I live in fantasies. They call me weird, shy— A soul who always tries to escape from reality. An impractical, imperfect introvert.
But what people don't know is: I’m not strange—just simple and safe in my own space. Not a survivor of fantasies, But someone who uses them to ease the weight of life. Not weird, but vowful. Not an escaper, but an exceptionist.
I am not broken—just different. Not lost—just elsewhere. Not weak—just layered. Not escaping—but creating.
So let them call me strange, But know this— In a world that often forgets to feel, Maybe strange is exactly what we need.
To be misunderstood isn't a flaw—it's a sign you're not afraid to feel, to dream, to create. In a world numbed by noise, maybe being strange is the truest form of strength.