Being Different

being different.jpg

She was different. She was strange. In a world full of people who worked like parts of one big machine, she was an unmatched screw. In a room full of fused bulbs, she was the one that gave light. In a line of disciplined ants, she was that one ant which went the wrong way. No one followed her. She walked alone on a path she made for herself.

She was different.

She was insane. People whispered about her on the streets, warning their children not to waste their lives like her. They told them to follow the system. They told them to be a part of the machine. They warned them to think like everybody else, do what everybody did. They told them never to be like her.

Because she was different.

People whispered, people stared, but she didn’t care. They told her that she couldn’t wake up, and that this was not a dream. She was part of a machine, not a human being with flesh and blood. It was all a show they said, and to keep it going, she had to live on the stage.

But she didn’t care. She was different.

She did live in a dream. She was not part of any machine. She lived in reality. She had thoughts of her own, she did things nobody else did.
Their voices never left her. They told her what to do, how to think. But she never listened. She did what she wanted to, and she seemed happier than everyone else. There seemed to be a flaw in her code, a flaw no one could fix. She was proud of that fault, it made her different.

She loved being different.

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