A poet is, before anything else, a person who is

passionately in love with language.
W. H. Auden
 

Maybe it would seem as a surprise to others if I admit that I am geeky and nerdy but not all around smart. I already look the part so why not go with it all the way right?

But it is not being smart that makes me different from others.

I love reading! I could read even before I could write, believe it or not. By the time I was 10, I was already past my Sweet Valley and Nancy Drew phase and was on to tackling more serious and thicker books.

I am a member of the honors class. English and literature are my strong points followed by science and history. Math is my archenemy.

I don’t know why I get words but not numbers. Maybe because words mean something and anything to everyone and anyone and numbers are just well, boring.

My other favorite hobby is observing. I love watching people as well as nature. At the end of our street is a small park with a drooping acacia tree. I discovered it when I was 11 and looking for a place to be alone. I usually sit hidden among the branches for hours, looking at the people passing below, the skies above and everything in between and generally, contemplating life.  My father tells me this is a gift and I should nurture it. My father says being a good observer will prove valuable to me one day. (I’m still waiting Dad.)

Maybe having these hobbies has opened up my heart to love words. It has become my outlet for my ideas and feelings. Writing is my passion, especially poetry. I keep a journal. I write about my thoughts, feelings, sometimes poems and quotes by people that inspire me. My father encourages me to do this but maybe because he is a writer, a journalist for an international magazine. He is gone most of the time, covering important stories abroad. So I miss him a lot. And writing is something I do that makes me feel connected to him.

I know this sounds heavy. My teacher in elementary told me once that I was more mature than the rest of the class in that I thought like an old soul. I didn’t get what he meant but he showed me my work and compared it to other kids. It was an essay we did before of things we loved and feared.

Other kids wrote how they love their toys and candy and chocolate, no school and gifts. I like those things but I don’t think I love them. It seemed silly to love things that don’t last. I love my family, the way my father’s forehead crinkles when he’s in deep thought, the way my mother’s eyes light up when she’s smiling. I love writing, the way words bloom on blank paper. I love pink and orange sunsets, the feel of the sea as it washes on my toes when we go to the beach, the change of season from autumn to winter then to spring, the smell of a book as I turn its’ leaves and many other things that sound sappy when I wrote them.

Many kids wrote how they feared recitations and tests, ghosts, monsters, icky worms and snakes, and growing old. I am also not fond of recitations and tests but I do not fear them. I am scared of ghosts and monsters even worms and snakes but I know that they are not the most fearsome. I am not sure how to feel about growing old but I wonder if I am supposed to fear it. I am however, afraid of my family dying and being left alone with no one to love me, of dying without having done anything worth remembering and being forgotten. I’m afraid of missing out on life experiences just because I’m too afraid to try them.

I realized that I am different from other kids and that the things I loved and feared sounded much too big and heavy for my age. I don’t know if the teacher was giving me a compliment or telling me to lighten up. But I am much too stubborn to care what others think.

 I stand by my words.