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Description
What do you think differentiates you from your peers?

Peer 1 sees: A piece of trash on the bench.
I see: A fuchsia stained Hope menthol cigarette; the color that little girls wear, the ones playing dress-up, princesses of some foreign kingdom, where they aren't treated as babies anymore.  The outcome of playing with Mom's eggshell white face powder, Crayola crayon blue eye shadow, sex flush red blush, and that fuchsia lipstick, leaving you looking pretty frightening instead; not quite royalty.

I notice how it's in a public elementary school and wonder which over-worked, under-paid person it had belonged to.  And whether they liked their job; if I met them, would I be able to see the passion in them.  Would it be oh-so infectious, that they may even inspire me?  And what keeps them driven.  And what their favorite type of fruit is; do they have any kids; and whether or not they like their middle name.

I want to know who people are.  And how I used to be.

Peer 2 sees: Some random graffiti.
I see: Black, thick Pentel pen (my favorite kind), permanently proclaiming that E <3s C.  Proudly displayed on the brown wooden picnic table top, for anyone who sits there to become aware of this.

But then I wonder, does this "C" person love the "E" individual back?  Or do they really not care that a single returned smile from them, can make the other the happiest person in the world at that given moment?  And do their friends care?  Or is it the whole Romeo & Juliet deal.  Is it boy boy, girl girl, girl boy?

And do the painfully ignorant hate them from that [the freedom to have their heart's thud-thudding accelerate at the sighting of the other]?

I guess I'm just a romantic at heart.  Call me a dreamer.

Peer 3 sees: A pen.
I see: The heartbeat-like motion of the mercury colored stereo.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  Blasting "My pen is a pistola...A patriot's weapon of choice."  Incubus' "Pistola" is on.  So loud that the black Pilot pen saunters across the not quite binder paper white desk, eternally scarred by moments of boredom.

I reach for the metal tipped dart.

It fits perfectly in my hand.  A familiar old friend.  My childhood's cotton candy pink security blanket.  I grasp it; two fingers to the side, two on top, and thumb over that.  The way I was taught not to write in Mrs. Hinduja's second grade class.  Then again, people find comfort in different ways.  But at this point, who's to argue?

I pause to think about what I mean to say, the opaque black ink staining my fingers.  A reminder that although first impressions may not always be right, they still count for something.  Whether I'd like them to or not.  So I pick my words carefully, as I scribble furiously on my electric green Post-Its.  Almost like composing a song; the notes melodious birds trapped between the cage made by the horizontal lines across the measures; I love the way words sound.  The taste of them in my mouth.  Sumptuous ingriedients for a bard.

But writing is not about working from the outside in.  An idea must take root first, then the pinks, and oranges, and purples of the words grow; and then a breath spreads its seeds.  Writing is the opportunity to inform, the ability to incite, and the hope to inspire.

Hear me, hear me.

Description
What do you think differentiates you from your peers?

Peer 1 sees: A piece of trash on the bench.
I see: A fuchsia stained Hope menthol cigarette; the color that little girls wear, the ones playing dress-up, princesses of some foreign kingdom, where they aren't treated as babies anymore.  The outcome of playing with Mom's eggshell white face powder, Crayola crayon blue eye shadow, sex flush red blush, and that fuchsia lipstick, leaving you looking pretty frightening instead; not quite royalty.

I notice how it's in a public elementary school and wonder which over-worked, under-paid person it had belonged to.  And whether they liked their job; if I met them, would I be able to see the passion in them.  Would it be oh-so infectious, that they may even inspire me?  And what keeps them driven.  And what their favorite type of fruit is; do they have any kids; and whether or not they like their middle name.

I want to know who people are.  And how I used to be.

Peer 2 sees: Some random graffiti.
I see: Black, thick Pentel pen (my favorite kind), permanently proclaiming that E <3s C.  Proudly displayed on the brown wooden picnic table top, for anyone who sits there to become aware of this.

But then I wonder, does this "C" person love the "E" individual back?  Or do they really not care that a single returned smile from them, can make the other the happiest person in the world at that given moment?  And do their friends care?  Or is it the whole Romeo & Juliet deal.  Is it boy boy, girl girl, girl boy?

And do the painfully ignorant hate them from that [the freedom to have their heart's thud-thudding accelerate at the sighting of the other]?

I guess I'm just a romantic at heart.  Call me a dreamer.

Peer 3 sees: A pen.
I see: The heartbeat-like motion of the mercury colored stereo.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  Blasting "My pen is a pistola...A patriot's weapon of choice."  Incubus' "Pistola" is on.  So loud that the black Pilot pen saunters across the not quite binder paper white desk, eternally scarred by moments of boredom.

I reach for the metal tipped dart.

It fits perfectly in my hand.  A familiar old friend.  My childhood's cotton candy pink security blanket.  I grasp it; two fingers to the side, two on top, and thumb over that.  The way I was taught not to write in Mrs. Hinduja's second grade class.  Then again, people find comfort in different ways.  But at this point, who's to argue?

I pause to think about what I mean to say, the opaque black ink staining my fingers.  A reminder that although first impressions may not always be right, they still count for something.  Whether I'd like them to or not.  So I pick my words carefully, as I scribble furiously on my electric green Post-Its.  Almost like composing a song; the notes melodious birds trapped between the cage made by the horizontal lines across the measures; I love the way words sound.  The taste of them in my mouth.  Sumptuous ingriedients for a bard.

But writing is not about working from the outside in.  An idea must take root first, then the pinks, and oranges, and purples of the words grow; and then a breath spreads its seeds.  Writing is the opportunity to inform, the ability to incite, and the hope to inspire.

Hear me, hear me.