Touch of Fae

We don’t know where it comes from, or what we should believe. We know things we shouldn’t, and perceive with our invisible eyes.

I’m one of “them”. When it started I’m not sure. That’s a lie. From birth my senses have been well…eccentric. Childhood was rough with rocks and sneers. It’s not my fault they would think so loud.

It’s not my fault I can predict events, or smell the emotions of others, or even taste the salty deep thoughts of those standing near. Those are hard sensations to ignore by the way.

Fairies, pixies, graces and nymphs. All mythological characters have been my friends and role models. If only I had wings, or lived in a tree. Then I’d be accepted and belong.

I don’t have wings that blow my hair majestically. I can’t materialize out of trees and water with¬†immaculate hair dancing in the wind. Come to think of it, I don’t have the hair to be a creature that few believe in anymore, way too much frizz.

I can’t explain why there are few people like me, or how we keep our sanity. When asked what’s wrong with me, or if my sickness is contagious, I smile with the sweetness of a citrus blossom, shrug my shoulders and say:

“Don’t you worry, it’s just a touch of Fae.”

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