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Someone said to me quite recently, "You have no idea how unusual you are." My response was that this was untrue because no one ever lets me forget that I'm different.
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Nothing undercuts whatever scaffold of confidence one manages to construct like the kind of casual gossip that is a constant shadow when you're unique; all that seems to matter is that someone said whatever and credibility is automatically vested, without question.
I am reminded of the movie Wings of Desire right now -- I am the angel who dared to become human and my gods have dropped heavy armor from above to remind me of my mortal state, drawing blood in the process. And I, too, chose to trade this real protection for a more colorful coat of thinner cloth. But unlike the newly-human angel, I've lived long enough to understand the price paid in making these choices. It's not the fact that the past won't stay dead that bothers me -- I work hard to have as few regrets as possible. Instead, it's the fact that this is my third time around the block in this game in almost 20 years' time and nothing ever really changes -- apparently not even me. Each time I rekindle my hope for a place where ideas and thoughts matter more than whatever detritus someone can unearth in a few minutes of haphazard digging, rubble not in situ, when maybe I should just face the fact that the ideal version I keep imagining ain't ever gonna be real. I keep hoping to find allies, but instead I'm still a lightning rod for assholes with too much time on their hands. While youth is not a crime, some of you who read this need to realize that you're such children, really -- quick to judge and label because it's so much easier than seeking the truth, asking for the other side of the story or making an honest effort to understand something not yet within your current frame of reference. The only real definition of "mental illness" is to keep doing exactly the same thing time and again, continuing to expect a different result from the repeated action in each instance. Maybe it's time for me to accept this truth, cut my losses and move on. Maybe it's unfair to expect those who haven't yet tasted much of life to know that mistakes are the dues paid in making an effort to truly be alive in vivid technicolor. Maybe I shouldn't try writing again if I have little of any real significance to impart and the best I can do is seek to amuse, leaving it instead to those who can do so with greater ease and grace, and also with less personal investment. Maybe it's simply time to for me to accept that the world is not particularly kind to those wish to live in it unvarnished.
And, finally, maybe I should quit being the bohemian gypsy/jester/aspiring fool and just start taking the fucking pills again. |