Some children just cannot color within the lines. Their
pictures seem messy and careless to the eye trained to see only one way.
For these children, no matter where they go, no matter what they do,
life is different, they are different. They are the dreamers.
Music plays in their heads; vibrant colors flash before their
eyes, the sun feels warm, the breeze cool, the water refreshing. Life for
them is ecstasy — and agony — because no one understands.
Time has no meaning so they are always late, or early, or on time.
Rules have no purpose because they forbid that which is and
demand that which is not. The dreamers suffer because of what could be,
and is, but only for them.
And the angry world, the bitter, empty, disappointed world
says: "Why can't you be like us — it's for your own good." And the
dreamer throws back his head and laughs...then drops it into his hands
and sobs.