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A thing people say commonly to me: “You’re weird” or “you’re really weird” or “I like the way your brain works” or “your brain is interesting,” all of which do not as accusations/assessments displease, but they do not particularly please me either.
They make me feel lonely. Or rather they remind me that I’m alone.
They remind me of my adolescence.
Here’s me in a field, I’m alone, and I’m walking toward the distant horizon. I keep walking for the next 15 years.
There’s something about being singled out as different—even for positive things—and here is what it is: the subtext is you don’t belong, that there is maybe some other place, some other Earth in some other Universe where you don’t stand out, where no remarks about your special or notable qualities are necessary because none exist and it doesn’t even matter if this place would be better or preferable as a home—what matters is the feeling of displacement. You’ve been taken out and set down on the temporary shelf of the world, and it is not the shelf on which you belong.
The thing about feeling this sort of loneliness is it is not the ache for human contact which the instant medicine of friends can fix—it is a permanent condition. It gets inside you and dissolves into the walls. It’s the longing for the stars—a very real longing but a longing which one eventually is forced to recognize as futile, impossible. One is eventually required to accept the impossible.
You accept it, even if you yet retain a small, mad hope.
I think partly this attitude accounts for—has blossomed into my capacity for romance.
I’m interested in loving others—I’m interiorly directed toward it, toward romance, because I yet nurse a small, mad hope: that I am not the lone survivor of my homeworld’s diaspora—that here, now, on Earth, there are others.
Others for whom my special shape and way are not strange but natural, who do not find me odd but familiar.
Who look at me not as an alien object but instead with recognition.
I want to be recognized and these things remind me that I want that.