If by sentimental you mean the way that walking past an old tree feels like I’m walking past an ancient friend, like all I have to do is reach out and we’ll naturally meet each other in a warm embrace, then yes, I am sentimental.
Or maybe you mean the way that being by a body of water instantly sets my mind at ease and soothes my soul, or how I can see its reflection as clearly as the moon’s as they dance together across that inky surface. If that’s what you mean, then I suppose you’re right in calling me emotional.
If by wild and rebellious you mean the way that the rhythmic pulsing of the earth’s heartbeat beneath my feet makes me sway my hips and turn my face to the sky, or how I feel an irrepressible need to take off my shoes, to bury my hands in the dirt, and to feel the wind blowing through my hair, then it’s true. There’s no hope of this rebellious soul ever being tamed.
If by sensitive you mean the special kinship I feel with the tiniest creatures I meet in my daily life – the squirrels and the rabbits, the birds, ducks, and frogs – or the way that I communicate with them and respect the common spirit we share, then I guess you’re right. I am the sensitive type.
If by different you mean that I don’t need to go to a club to be entertained, a bar to get drunk, or a church to pray, then I suppose I am different. And if by quiet you mean that sometimes I prefer listening to speaking, that I can appreciate silence, and I don’t have to use words for everything I say, then I am quiet indeed.
But if you mean to say that I’m somehow apart from you, I have to disagree. These things about me that intrigue and disconcert you are but a reflection of the parts of you begging to be seen.