Here’s what happened:
I began to truly identify and explore my interests much later in my twenties. I wasn’t one of those high schoolers who knew they were an artist early on, and so hung with the other (labeled) “weirdos” and “different” kids. I was a regular kid, maybe the one difference was that I never had a particular group that I belonged to. I kinda mixed and mingled with everyone. I’m still that way.
My freshman year in college I met this guy. He was very different from anyone I’d ever experienced. It was the first time I met someone like me. (Retrospective observation here.) He was a writer. Had a deep passion for music and art. He was a creative. Ambitious. He challenged me. He made me think new thoughts. He made feel new feels. His word play was clever and smart. He took me to new and exciting places. Introduced me to coffee shops in Third Ward and poetry spots downtown. And music. Music was our thing. He treated me differently. Loved the fact that I challenged him also. Adored the way I said “too”. We were enchanted with one another. Loved the