I have always been a misfit. Not just in the “I-am-not-going-to-conform-to-societal-norms” kinda way but also, to a large extent, in an ‘unfit-in-my-own-world’ kinda way. My thoughts are like hungry monsters, feeding on my insides, tearing up the me-morsels they want with infinite intensity and damaging diversity. When one of them wants a piece, another wants it too, both fighting out for the bite until a third unseen ghost barges in to steal it and all the others away. It is not just that I think a lot but that my thoughts are such a web of contradictions that I doubt if I could ever simplify complexities or erm, complicate simple things.
Image source: Pixabay, under Creative Commons License
Let me explain. I believe in things like a mad zealot and I am skeptical of the very same things. My impulses take over my willpower for all things big and small and I hop from one junction to another, not knowing what the next junction is or even if there’s a need to reach there. My head and heart aren’t just fighting a lifelong battle- they are possibly doing it with the worst ever war strategy known to mankind. My eyes make connections faster than my little being can absorb and my mind wanders off to places farther than my two little left feet can take me. My ears hear a tune that soon turns muse and yet, my hands type furiously a story that I do not know the end of. It’s like I am hungry, restless- always seeking. What- I do NOT know. Not yet.
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But I enjoy the mystery. Makes me feel like Cumberbatch on an impossible mission.
Maybe I will solve it one day. Maybe I will find the answers. But what would I do, then? The thought is scary as f*ck. Hence, I squeeze out the fear to accommodate as much of this restlessness as I can. It is what I get off on. It is what drives me. It seems crazy to others that I do not ever know what I want, what I seek, what I desire. Seems crazy to me to, often. More often than I care to admit.
Image source: Pixabay, under Creative Commons License
But I have accepted this part of me. I have accepted that I will always be the uneasiness that envelops an assuring certainty. I will be the doubts that dispel confidence. I will always be my wild, wandering thoughts, my impossibly fantastical stories and my deepest, darkest feelings.
It is what makes me real. It is what makes me ME.
Maybe whatever it is inside of me- this force- is too strong to walk hand-in-hand with the world. Maybe it is too wild to belong to the tame parts of me, even. Maybe my atoms are arranged after a different fashion and my thoughts come from another universe. Maybe I am just more of me than I am of who I think I am. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.
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Maybe it’s okay to be myself. Maybe it’s okay to be a misfit in oneself.
Maybe. Just maybe.
Featured image source: Pixabay, under Creative Commons License
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