My sister and I are two very complete opposites of each other; she's a reader, whilst I, a writer.
"What's the difference?" you may ask. Well, for one thing, she loves stories. She loves reading stories. In fact, she reads more novels than I, and also has a long collection of online novels on her Wattpad library. As for I, I am not much of a reader myself. I can read, and I read when I need to. It just so happens that I'm not as much of a fanatic as my sister about story books and the sort. But one thing I have that my sister hasn't, is the uncanny ability to be better than her in terms of vocabulary and its usage, thus having a skill greater than hers, though slightly, to be able to write and create my own masterpieces; and so I write.
My sister and I are polar opposites. While I create, she consumes; when I build, she destroys; what I construct, she devours. I am the peacemaker, while she is the aggressor. Her personality is split, doubled, two-faced, all the more proving how much we are each other's irony. If you know her like I do, she's either 100% crazy happy, or 100% crazy pissed; there is no "in between". I honour my parents in their instructions and advices; she rebels against them. Rude, inconsiderate, disrespectful all the more. Her mouth is like a fountain of poison. At most times when she speaks, she blurts out whatever comes to her mind first, as a natural response to a typical conversation (and only amongst my family) and without thinking twice, she plunges a spear to the heart, piercing it through to create a hole deep enough that it would bleed out like how our patience bleeds itself dry like we could stand anymore of her attitude.
My sister and I are each other's inverse; and like I said, we are each other's irony. At home, she is more than bold enough to stand against us, speak her mind, and express her rage, her sarcasm, and her nonsensical sense of humour. Outside of home however, she becomes shy and timid, is respectful of others, and would think twice before saying something. I, on the other hand, am quiet at home, think twice before I speak, and sometimes keeps certain things to myself. On the outside, however, I am never afraid to express who I am, what I want to say, ideas and opinions, and could be considered as the "loudest person on earth" (as what my sister could say about me). Like, really, I don't know how to judge the volume of my voice. So you could say that I speak like I'm shouting.
Despite the differences however, there are things that I do appreciate about her. I believe she is a gift (so happened she was born a day after my second birthday), and one of the strangest kind. She tests our patience, not so that we could stand growing in irritation and frustration but more so that we grow in more patience and love towards such a person. She has such an exuberant, crazy happy attitude sometimes, even with her nonsense she calls "humour", there are times within our family where we do laugh with each other. She dares speak out at home, so that we can try to understand her but sadly, that isn't always the case.
And like the irony we are, though she may be a reader, and I, a writer, she dislikes poetry. (What!?)
Even though I may not be like the reader she is, I have my own interests in things. I read when I need to and when I want to and usually, it'll be something that catches my eye. I find inspiration in things, and it's not always easy. Yet, poems of which I read and write, they tell good stories too. Short, concise, yet so full of elaboration, exaggeration, emotion and meaning, with every hyperbole, simile, metaphor and maybe even a pun or two in just two to four short stanzas. I like simple things, she likes complicated ones.
She is a novel, and I a poem.
She is a story, and I am a song
She is an essay, and I a mere sentence.
She says a word, and I disappear.
My sister and I are total opposites; she is a reader, and I, a writer.
She loves good stories, the long ones
I love good stories, the short ones.
and though I a writer, and she a reader,
by the way, if she should read this,
this is no good story.
I don't even know if the paragraphs connect
or how they transition
or whether I have judged her right.
But the thing is, this a story of my sister and I, how we relate to each other. There are those days when we relate to each other, when she seeks my advice when she needs it, when she tells me things she wants to share. We are opposites and yet one of the same kind.
Sweet sister, although bitter,
you are still fine.
