You know, gray’s my favorite color.

Some days I get this strange desire to write. Not just anecdotal humor from the goofy events of my life, but more like I’m stifling a poet, starving her of the chance to actually be allowed to write for the sake of writing. Stifling. It’s intentional. I don’t need any more reasons to be introverted, so I smother her. That same girl who cries about everything , wants to be a princess, loves pink, knows that her Dad will always be the biggest man in the world, and believes in fairytales (you know, real ones).

But for whatever reason, I never was that girl. Not a big deal, it's just not who I was. I never cried about anything. Princesses didn’t play with legos, Ninja Turtles, or Curtis and Carl. I hate pink. My dad… well, he will always be the biggest man in the world. I’ve yet to meet someone bigger than him. But fairytales were silly- I mean, come on, let’s be realistic. Just like writing. Seriously? I’ll tell you about the "foreboding" clouds- variations in pressure cause them to accumulate, the accumulation blocks the sun, humidity changes, and sometimes it thunders. Call it whatever you want, that’s what happens. Simple as that.

And then I have days like yesterday.

I felt so symbolic yesterday. If I knew Picasso…

I would buy a guitar. I would play. This kind of odd mood is great for getting me back into songwriting.

It was odd. Odd for me, anyway. As I drove home from work, the sky was exactly what I was feeling. It was raining. Nothing too crazy, heavier than a drizzle, but not the usual Florida downpour. The kind of rain that requires wipers, but on a low setting, just to be safe, but the sky was not the customary gray. It was a beautiful blue. The sun was shining brightly, as if to remind you that for as miserable a day as the rain made it seem, there really was nothing to worry about. You’ll get a little bit wet, but it will be over soon, and you can already see the sun smiling knowingly behind the clouds. Sometimes, I’m more than grateful for the visual of something much bigger than me, or the sun. The day did seem miserable. I could have given a million reasons for that, but none of them very good. Or really, even valid. It took a blue sky to convince me of the notion I’d had all day, but I just let it nag instead of giving it any real attention. And I wanted to write about the imagery. 1) I never think about imagery. 2) I don't write.

It’s reflecting on days like yesterday that bring me to the realization that I don’t have to stifle that other girl who doesn’t seem to be me. I can cry about things without bawling my eyes out over spilled milk. I can want to be treated like a princess without wanting to wear frilly dresses. I can be okay with chance moods of poetic imagery without fearing becoming a psycho-introvert who trades pages and pens for human interaction.

And I certainly won’t ever be lost in fairytale land, but that doesn’t mean I can’t wish for one and believe it really can happen. Within reason, of course.

My sister was having me critique her college application essays. She just handed me a stack, saying something along the lines of, "sorry if it's kind of a mess, these are first drafts, I'm over the word limit on all of them, and if I made some stuff up, don't hang me." I sorted through the stuff she made up, was amazed at her writing skills, and as I handed them back to her, I realized I'd missed one.

No sorting through creative liberties this time.

I love her.

"Who am I? I'm the opposite of my sister. She has brown hair and green eyes, offsetting my blond hair and blue eyes. She's short; I outgrew her years ago. But our differences are deeper. She's outgoing, but keeps friends at a distance. I'm selective but confide everything in the friends I have. She's lively on weekends; I curl up with my book. She's lackadaisical when I literally cry over spilled milk. She excelled in high school. I learned the hard way. She waddles like a duck; I strut like a peacock. I love making lists that she loves to lose. I aced AP English, she bested AP Biology. She writes Spanish poetry; I create monologues. She's overbearing, and I'm painfully shy... We both struggle with emotions; I vocalize volumes and she expresses excerpts. We are different. The hardest thing I learned is that 'different' isn't unequal. I spent years measuring up to her until I learned better. She's no longer the sister people like best, but my best friend, the way I define myself, my equal, and the mirror where I find who I really am."