They ask me what’s my favourite flower. I don’t know. I never knew which flower I liked the most. Perhaps, I liked all that weren’t estranged from their stems. I always thought I knew myself well but got tongue-tied whenever asked about it.
Even in groups I notice, people always have something to say with perfect words and well-rounded achievements and none of them zone out of boredom. They have so much to share. Weddings, property, affairs, careers, gossips all these topics come easy to them while I have nothing to contribute. Then, I’m usually cornered or pushed or pointed at as a weirdo with an uncompromising pressure to be one of their kind. The times I cave in, I usually become the bearer of the most boring, lowbrow answers. And I get too embarrassed to speak afterwards.
I see an entire universe in my mind but possess a tiny speck of dictionary to explain it. Was I wrong in knowing myself? 1 out of 1000 times is a possibility for me to say something smart in those group which I’d probably rejoice it for years. Rest 999 times I just sit there.
But it’s such a hollow pain trying to be a part of something you don’t feel you belong to. Neither I’m so horribly limited in my thoughts to enjoy a satisfying conversation. I might be clueless to talk about the elite subjects but definitely not callous towards the one who doesn’t fit in as well.
If I meet someone diving off in the same trajectory of mind as mine i would have endless things to talk about. Souvenirs, trinkets, magic, eclipses, multiverses, rains, clouds, museums, anger, outbursts, bus ride, warm tea, beaches, mountains, sunsets, death. All these little things bringing happy air in the lungs.
If I’d see someone struggling, shrinking into their bones, missing their safe-zone I’d never push them into the pit of proving themselves to the world. I would rather make feel comfortable and would want them to be themselves with me. Because that shit is rare.