I cry at odd times because of odd things,
but they're not that odd in reality. These moments are just not represented enough.
I know there are other people in this world who watch the light when it plays across leaves and fabric and appreciate it with every bit of their being
I know there are other people in this world who feel how harsh the hatred in this world is sometimes, too heavy for their heart, even when it's not directed at us
I know there are other people in this world who know their own stupidity too well, how it spills out in certain moments and seems to colour every part of who they are
and feel how gentle streaks of water caress their cheeks.
People still jump to conclusions. They'll ask why you are sad. It's not as one-dimensional. It doesn't have to be sadness.