I’m lonely. So, so lonely. And it’s not because I don’t have friends. Sometimes I’ll say I don’t, but I do. They aren’t super-close friends, but they’re there. I can talk to them freely, I can trust them with certain things, and I enjoy spending time with them.
But I’m still lonely. And this morning, I realized why.
Nobody understands me. When I’m with other people, we can have a lot in common and even be friends, but they never understand me. I’m always hiding a little piece of myself—though it’s usually a big piece. When we talk about something, we’re just brushing the surface. We never go deep.
I like deep. Depth is amazing. I love reading and writing stories, not because it’s an escape from reality and it’s fun, but because it absolutely amazes me how words—essentially just funny-shaped scribbles on a paper—hold so much meaning, so much feeling. Have you ever read a book and it made you cry? Or had an adrenaline rush? Or feel tense? How do little scribbles on a paper do that?
I love music because, just like with words, it’s just noise. Yet somehow, music is different from other noise. It means something. I’ve listened to music and cried. I’ve sung right along with the singer and felt elated. I’ve had music depress me so much I huddled into a ball.
I love science because it’s all so amazing. Just looking at the world around me leaves me in awe. Some people can look at a picture of a nebula or a pretty sunset and think it’s pretty. But do they ever really look at it? Do they ever really appreciate it?
I’ve been accused before of not paying attention. And that’s because I don’t notice the outside things. When I look at somebody, I don’t see how she did her hair that morning or what color it is. Most people, if you ask me what their eye-color is, I’ll stare at you blankly. I’m a writer and an artist, too, which means I have to notice things like that. Yet I don’t. What I see—or want to see—is what’s inside. It’s not how cute their clothes are that is important to me, it’s their personality. How are they feeling? What are they thinking? Who are they?
Not what are they wearing.
Even all of this that I’m saying is just barely scratching the surface. If anyone is reading this, they’re probably nodding along and thinking they understand. But they don’t. Because words are so simpler than thoughts and feelings. In order to explain this, I simplify it. I put into words. And then almost anybody can read it and understand.
But the thoughts and feelings and emotions are still so complex.
There’s a saying, that genius and insanity are often indistinguishable. A genius can be absolutely brilliant, to the point that the rest of us ordinary people are just staring in awe, completely uncomprehending what’s really going on, but often the genius is thought to be insane instead. Oh, they’re crazy. Or, in some cases, just plain wrong.
Just look at history and you’ll know what I mean.
I’m not a genius, and I’m glad of it. Geniuses understand things that normal people don’t even see, let alone understand, but it means they’re forever lonely. Nobody quite gets them, so they’re all by themselves. Sometimes, I think I can understand how this feels. When I bring my math homework to my mother for help, and in the middle of my explaining my problem to her, I figure out the answer—I see, she just doesn’t understand.
Nobody gets it. Not my parents, not my siblings, not any of the friends I’ve had over the years. So I’m lonely.
Right now, I want, more than anything, to meet somebody else who understands. Somebody who can look at the stars and see what I see, someone who can read a book and feel what I feel, someone who can wonder and ponder and think like I do, and not think I’m doing nothing.
I get that a lot. I’ll see there and just think, and people misunderstood. I was laying on the couch, once, staring at the ceiling, and my parents told me to go to bed if I was that tired. “I’m not tired,” I told them. “I’m just thinking. Albeit, with my eyes closed.”
“You look tired.”
I just want somebody to understand this, somebody real-life who I can talk to. They don’t have to be writers or artists or be fascinated by physics, but if they could be real (not imaginary, which is all I have right now) and somewhere in my age range, I’d be more than grateful.
I’m afraid, though, that I’m never going to find somebody like this. Not even if I pray and ask God.
Flower to the Son 