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.