He didn’t know who he was, or who he wanted to be. He had no idea where he was going, other than the daily routine his parents had laid out for him. Everyone thought he was so weird. He didn’t possess the capability to speak words; express feelings. So he drew. He wrote. He imagined.
Other kids learned math and absorbed it with ease. He simply couldn’t. He wanted to create and destroy, work with colours and make magic on paper. No one understood him.
As he grew older, the worry became worse. His mother reassured his father that one day, he’d be normal. Normal. It was what he strived to be, but he didn’t know how. Didn’t know how to be anything but who he was. His creativity controlled his every move - and for that, he was known to be an outcast. Outcasted he was.