One of the greater sources of sorrow for me is the loneliness of not fitting in. I have made it my goal to be comfortable in a wide range of scenarios – to live a life of change and exposure – but I did not anticipate the pain this would cause. The larger the variety of things you have experienced the smaller the crowd of similar people gets. Where are the Brazilian born, ex-missionary, blonde, farming, philosophers in my engineering laboratories? Who would like to speak about their deepest inner turmoil while making jokes about physics at the bar? I am suspicious of feeling unique, and know we all feel misunderstood.
So this is for the pain of those who have a deep love for beauty, but are surrounded by the worshipers of practicality with few words. Those who love the city in the country and the country in the city. It is for those who are choosing to pave new ways for their demographics. And it is for those who just don’t know how to mould to the culture around them.
I am consoled with kind words about the benefits of being strange, and the ways in which my future will be different because of it. But I wonder whether it is I who feel those benefits or those who get to watch me live a weird life. It is exhausting and overwhelming to have such an overactive relationship with my experiences, and I would often trade it for a more passive mind.
They entice you to this life
Saying, adventure, individual.
Notice they do not say that it is good,
Why do you think it would be?
You feel this depth because your floor has been ripped out
And you are the wind twirling through walls and windows
Never meeting the full resistance of simplicity.
Is there something wrong with you?
Your eyes are still wild,
Sharing secrets with animals,
But your kind cannot look at you.
Forever chasing “they” that fear you.
Their marvelling is not communion.
The story benefits the listener
And the adventure is for the watcher.
For they can see your place on the cliff wall
and wonder at the beauty.
But you are insulted by rocks
While the wind tears off your comfort.
Who out there hears the earth like you.
How do you call them to you?
And when will you seat yourself
Upon the mighty ledge of your trophy.
I thank the poets who insist that I belong.
They wrote their messages on the caves of this cliff I climb.
I was here.
I too took the lonely route,
And I too am starving.”