I live life as a white crayon. And I have done nothing wrong. The white crayon doesn't either. All the white crayon wants to do is be like the others. And the white crayon does. There's nothing different about the white crayon, and yet everything is wrong with it. It wants to be used, but is rarely. And, the feeling sits... And sits... And sits... Until it is all alone again. It feels useless. It feels as useless as a swimsuit for a bird. It feels as useless as a number one pencil. It feels as useless as Donald Trump in the White House. It feels as useless as... Well... A white crayon. And so it tries to be normal. It tries to hang out with the others, and yet is left aside like the third wheel of a motorcycle. It tries to fit in with the others, but they feel great that they get to be used. They feel so thankful for what the white crayon has DONE, but not for what the white crayon IS. The white crayon bends over backwards when another needs help lighting the shade of the situation, but never will another crayon lighten a white crayon. Never can anything fix a white crayon that's been worn down, year and year of abuse as the heavy wax builds up upon its sheen, slowly darkening the bright till the murky, ugly brown is all that's left. And once that's the only color left, its dropped. Dropped like the white crayon that it is. Constant years of use and abuse and use by the others until finally the white crayon breaks... Because what else can a white crayon do, except shatter under the pressure. That is the way of the white crayon, and a white crayon is all I am.
