On Coming To Terms With Being A Misfit

I’m such a misfit that I don’t even fit in my own world. My thoughts are weapons, tearing up my insides, with their unreasonable intensity and damaging diversity. One thought wants me to go from point A to point B, while the consecutive one wonders and consistently questions, whether point A even exists, and if it does, if there is even a need to go till point B. A web of contradictions exists in my cranium, and the more I try to simplify my thought process, the more clearly, I can see the complexities in the way I think. But, I’ve realised that nobody really has it figured out, they’re just better at concealing their doubts and insecurities. And I? I don’t hide them, not because I can’t, but because this perpetual existential crisis, is a part of my being, and my doubts only push me to squeeze out the maximum from myself.

I believe in things like I would die for them and I’m sceptical of the very same things. My impulses are stronger than my willpower. I have to talk to you when I have to and I need to change the world right now. My head and heart are just somewhere in the wrong place. My eyes make connections stronger and faster than my little world can accommodate. My mind wanders off to distant lands, farther away than my living two feet can ever reach. I’ll start writing without having the slightest hint of how the end will turn out to be. This wanderlust, this anticipation, of doing something more, and of reaching somewhere else, no longer disturbs me, for I know that I’m always seeking but I’ve learnt to find my peace in the process. I’m always restless, hungry and seeking. I’m searching for someone, for something, but I don’t know what those things are. I’m searching for things, which might not make sense, but which make me feel something, whether beautiful or destructive. I want to feel with an intensity than consumes me. But I also enjoy the mystery, that restless feeling of not knowing what those things are.

Maybe I’ll always be my desires, thoughts, feelings, and stories. I won’t be fit for this universe or for any other universe. I’ll always wander here and other, sometimes as a solitary being, and at other times, trying to retain parts of my personality which are just mine, somewhere fearing their dilution while immersing myself in the momentary pleasures of shared existence. Your facial expressions, the way you roll your tongue out when you’re confused, the way you sing the most random songs in your best possible voice, and how you hug me straight for ten goddamn minutes when you’re sad, all of this will be gone, you will be gone. So I’m only going to attach myself to this silence. To the constant, stable and for keeps – “sound of silence.” When you will be gone, I’d make love to silence, this nothingness, to keep my bones together, to keep my blood moving.

Maybe whatever is inside me is too powerful and too strong, to walk hand in hand with this world. Maybe my atoms are arranged differently, and my thoughts are put into my head, from another world. Maybe I’ll always be more of myself than of anyone else.
Maybe it’s okay to be myself.
Maybe it’s okay to be weird.