Less Typical

Every low tide watches these frozen falls descend, only to be eaten back again. Sometimes I think that’s maybe like me, each day somehow starting over. When I was young, it mystified me how people got boring. I looked around at other kids, or me in the mirror, and knew that we were pretty much emotionally unrestrained. Then I turned to the adults, and noticed how they weren’t exactly the vibrant sort. The few exceptions were elderly folks who’d finally reclaimed their long-lost passion, or the handful of childless grown-ups in my life. Was having kids what made some so low? If so, maybe that was the birth of my instinct not to have any. Watching my peers age was enlightening. One by one, the spark in their eyes was snuffed, their humour faded, and annoyance outpaced their curiosity. Whatever made them individual was shaved off or sanded away, in the effort to be less different. Can’t say I blame them. There are times when I’ve felt an incredible heartache in being less typical. Not special, not better — just a strange-shaped puzzle piece. I’m a born compatriot of the odd one out. It helps me treat my reflection better.

February 13, 2026
Baxter’s Harbour, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6669 of my daily journal.