They tell me I’m unique, but what does that mean? At first, it always seems like an odd sort of compliment, as if individuality is something everybody strives for. They say, she is an old soul, they say, she is a strange one. But do some not also see me as a mark, a flaw in the system, I think sometimes. Sometimes, I think that I make them uncomfortable, because if I am unique, what is my placement in the world? They say when you are unique, that you must embrace it, to rise above the world. But when I embrace it, world, they make me feel so low.
I might say that to be unique is something delicate and beautiful, and that like so many things beautiful it is full of sadness. I feel that I am an entity with beauties beyond what most people look for, misfits and scars beyond what people want to see. In every molecule the sun can touch, there are a thousand joys, a million stories and an infinite wheel of color to my eyes. But as I watch and learn, the realization hits me that nobody around me sees these colors, these joys. Perhaps nobody will ever think the way I do, and this is why it is a sad thing, to be unique. To be unique is to walk a thin line across the world and make life your own creation, to be constantly surrounded by life and yet, always alone.