Lack of a common spring...

A lot of the time, I feel like I'm on a separate page from everyone else that's around me. What I failed to realize until now, is that I'm in a whole different book. Everyone has their life on their own track, and each person you meet becomes a part of your book, but they've still got their own damn story and past chapters. Sometimes when I hear someone talking about things that have happened in his or her life, I think that I've really done nothing interesting in mine. I guess it works vica verse though, because there are also the times where I meet someone that's had a completely normal and dull life and I think to myself that I must be the strangest person on the planet. But in each instance, everyone has their own book and even they don't know what lies on the pages ahead.

The other day I told someone that I'm naturally drawn to tragedy. I'm wondering if this magnetic charge draws tragedy to me as well. For each person I seem to befriend has (or had) a vast amount of emotional, mental, or societal problems. I know that nearly everyone has a set of problems, but some are worse than others. It doesn't matter to me, because I'll accept anyone that needs a friend, and I'll help them out as much as I can. Although in doing this, I have caused myself far more pain that I'd ever expected to experience. But my heart feels it's alright in the end, as long as I'm able to help someone feel good.

I want to be able to laugh at those pages that are ahead of me. Whether it's good or not, I'm definitely a page-turner; I can read a lot. I don't want to be someone that puts the book down when they arrive at a boring chapter... 'cause there's always got to be something better ahead, right? Just depends on the protagonist. :')

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And now I leave you with another poem I think about quite often.

Alone
Edgar Allen Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —