Hope is hearing the melody of the future. Faith is to dance to it. ~R. Alves

Am I merely being fanciful when I insist I don't see as the majority of the world sees?  Not that my terrible eyesight plays a part.  Or perhaps it does.  But I shouldn't think so.

 

I often forget that what is obvious to me isn't obvious to most other people.  Then again, what is obvious to most people generally goes unregarded by me.  That which I think odd about me seems normal to others.  That which I rarely give a second thought seems unnatural to others.

 

I try to understand it.  I like to understand things.  But this one continually flummoxes me.

 

Either people do not think as I do, or they do.  Logic says this cannot happen at the same time.  Yet I am constantly surprised when I am forced to realize I am not, as they say, "normal."  Because I feel normal.  In a way.  I blend in easily.  I think.  It is a source of joy (and pride?) that I fly under the radar.  That I am not noticed.  That I am easily forgettable.

 

And yet... and yet... it irritates me when people express astonishment over what I think is obvious.  What can this mean?  Am I really that intelligent?  Am I really that observant?  Do the synapses in my brain work better than others?  Is it merely genetic fluke?  Or is it because my parents read to me when I was little?

 

But there.  I feel the shame of conceit.  Who am I, I protest, to be anything special?  What have I done to be regarded differently?  What talents do I give the world?  Do I not keep happily hidden away?  Do I not revel in being ignored?

 

I am not ambitious.  And yet I have ambition.  Is that so easily understood?

 

If you understand it, then once again I see the dividing line between me and the rest of the world.  For I struggle with my dreams, my fancies, my observations.  I was taught that if I am not contributing something to the world, I might as well be a failure.  Well, what am I contributing?  A bunch of silly questions that may or may not have answers, and even if they do, will those answers serve any purpose?

 

The practical side of me hates the Dreamer within.  The fanciful side of me grows frustrated with the Pragmatist.  It is a constant battle.  The desire to make dreams reality, and the desire to elevate dreams beyond the practicalities of the world.

 

I smile now, at this outpouring.  You would not be able to guess the inspiration from which it sprung.  Nor shall I tell you.  I have made myself to be enough of an oddity for one day.

 

Tomorrow, perhaps, I will laugh at this passionate outpouring.  The trouble with wisdom is that it recognizes folly.  Even I am not free from my own observations.  In fact, I rarely am.  But that is a musing for another time.

 

For the moment, these hastily typed out words must suffice.

 

At least I have an idea of what I'm thinking.  Whenever I begin to doubt the idea that I might be a writer, I remember that I rarely know what  I think or feel or believe until it is written down in black and white (or blue and gray and pink and purple and green and red and...).

 

I have a suspicion that this weekend's contemplation is merely a slow fermentation of what is to come.

 

Or maybe it isn't.

 

Oh, the frustrations of a contrary spirit.