That was always hard... the not understanding. People hated me; literally. My mother often said it was because people were intimidated by my magical persona. But I don't know, why-how could they be? Besides, perhaps I am on the brink of enigma, scaling the unknown boarder of internal reality and the external. What's to stop me? Is that truly plain intimidating? Is that confronting, frightening or hate-able? Again, I fail to see how; even now, all these years later. But I accept this misunderstanding, as I shared and still do with many; those who are close. Those who loved or love me for who I am. Not who I am if I conform to the utterly bland neuro-typicals' acceptance profile.
Besides, in the past, the past that is nearer to us than we all realise, this boarder that I scale night and day, the boarder that I dare (and dared) to cross, one side to the other like a pendulum, was thinner than what can be conceived as noticeable. The accepted truth and the one that is not able to be understood, the one that cannot be the truth but was understood as much closer than now. Or perhaps they merged, and not only in dreams...
Fantasy mingled and stole, captivating those willing to be kidnapped into paradoxical and impossible-yet not- society. The ever-present truth pictured faeries and mermaids and instead of the news we-yes we-we sought the views of the oracle, we fought the daunting omens that conjured nightmares beyond recognition. Yes, we were more true and unacceptable than ever. Why now, can we not be endorsed for believing and putting faith into the impossible? For, if we never try how can we know? Why do these present guidelines, expectations and conventions expect us to fall away from what gives comfort, real or not? Why can not I believe, like my ancestors who experienced the impossible? In a time when spells were cast to diminish ailments and a time when humans were not purely that, when demons and dangerous minds were fought with skill not cowardice veiled machinery and weaponry, we were different-from how we are now. And if the human mind is not comfortably accustomed to change then how could we become so modern, so boring, so unaccepting?
So here I was, Samantha of 14, the not-understanding and misunderstood figure and being, who yes, put faith into poshly named teddy-bears and found it extremely normal to do so. So why did others oppose?
YOU ARE READING
What She Wrote
Fiction générale"I know what they say. You don't have to hide it. I'm weird, dangerous even; to you. I don't agree, but I understand. Why do you judge me so quickly? Why do you smirk and point? I don't deserve it..." Samantha is no ordinary girl. No one at school t...
