The Person Who I am

I am a sitter. A watcher. A person who, by a young age was out of place. Where was I to fit in? I was from a poor home, a home of little monetary privilege, of little luxury, and even less societal fortitude. And so I sat. On the outside, looking in, on the sidelines, watching the game of life played out by others. Others, who grew up with the apparition of wealth and the illusion of their own self-induced enlightenment. As a watcher, a keen observer, I discovered even at a tender age that the wealth I ensued was far greater and was much higher in regard than their false monetary type.
I am a reader. A writer. A critic. A person who researches my interests, and full fills my curiosity by filling my notebooks with useless knowledge, retaining worthless facts. I toil over matters of no value, of little worth, insignificant in their circumstance, useless in day to day conversation; total and complete rubbish.
I am a purist. A believer. A helpless romantic. I live in a time and a place where I don’t belong. I believe in ever-after while surrounded by the temporary. I stroll while the world hurries. I absorb while the rest scans. I am alone in my pursuits. Misunderstood, misjudged, misconstrued.