I have always wondered about the mysteries of the regular person. The people I walk by each day. People just living their lives, getting an education, a job, falling in love and well, growing.
Communal living has always been a foreign concept to me. I do not particularly have difficulty working with people, although my work ethic is not one to be easily accepted, I still manage to get things done. I have issues with living with people. Co-existence with other human beings has proven itself to be more of a challenge than I initially thought. It is tiring pretending to be normal when you’re always under scrutiny.
My ideals of life and my general philosophy differ from most people. I am not by any means raising myself up on a pedestal or calling myself superior. I am also not being self-deprecating.
I am different, and not in the flattering sense of the word. I realize that in this generation and age, people are so desperate to be different that they do all sorts of things just to achieve and gain such perception from others.
I have been different on the outside, no doubt, for a period of time. That has changed. What I cannot change, however, is what goes on inside. I have tried to foster & build intimate relationships with others only to realize that most, if not all, of these relationships fail because of me. My inherent lack of faith in people and my inability to accept love for what it is. I am simply not like you. I don’t feel what you feel and the colors I see and paint are different from those in your palette.
What’s inside of me is what drives me to feel the way I feel. These feelings, if strong enough, manifest into actions and words which, more often than not, do not sit well with others.
I just don’t belong in the same sandbox.
Perhaps, if I am not to be loved, I should not go against the laws of nature. Everyone dies alone anyway and it is in solitude that I find peace.
I have been taken for a fool by my own delusions of love, intimacy and acceptance. I do not think of myself to be a monster, but one cannot be so deep in denial to not know that there will always be people who are meant to walk alone.
The ones that wander from place to place, collecting new scars from seething wounds.