I always used to wonder why I was never popular growing up, why I was always one of the ones who were outside the group looking in and wondering what it was like to be part of a group, a clique, someone cool. I always wondered why they didn’t like me, why they wouldn’t choose me.
As I’ve gotten older, I’m beginning to realize that it wasn’t that they didn’t like me. They just couldn’t understand me. I was the one in the corner with a vacant stare, but a whole world in my mind. The one who cried when I saw an ant suffering. The one who liked having conversations with imaginary people in magical places rather than talking about the next big party or who liked who.
As I’ve gotten older I realize that you can’t really have it both ways. You can be creative, you can think in ways others can’t, you can feel everything so very deeply, and it’s amazing, but most people can’t understand the way you feel or even fathom it. You confuse them, and they bore you.