A Note on Difference

Somewhere in the air of a different tune, there sat a stranger, twiddling his thumbs.

    He was different.

    His hair was brushed and plaited.

    He preferred the fresh breeze of a kilt.

    His smile was as golden as his socks. 

    Sometime ago, he could have been different than what he was. Caved to the noise of the crowd and given up his rights to himself. Changed.

    He didn't though.

    He was made of stronger things than the moods of crowds.

    He found a place where the air felt thicker, and there he whistled all the different tunes. Once he had them out, he found his comfort. Right inside where the skin was tightest and the beats and booms ticked along in their strangest ways.

    In the end, there was nothing to change.

    He was just very much himself.

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