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My confession: Do you ever feel like this? [I Confession]

The world is a kind of nuisance. The real world is an intrusion. I just want to live. Why can’t I just live? I just want to be left alone to write. To think. To imagine. There is so much conflict in the world. I feel that I am constantly getting caught up in other people’s conflicts. I hate that. Why can’t people leave me alone?

I sometimes think there’s a civil war in my head. Two sides battling it out. Constant conflict and chaos. But then I think that goes on in the outside world as well. People are always fighting. And then I get caught up in it. I wish I could escape from all that.

I think of myself as a rebel. Someone who doesn’t go along with the crowd. I fight the established order, if only covertly. I live underground. Like a person in a totalitarian regime. In my mind and in covert behaviors, I defy and fight against the Powers that Be. I would like to crush them.

I feel like an orphan or an adopted child. My parents are not my real parents. My family was not my real family. It’s strange, but I feel I came from another family. I feel I belong somewhere else. And the place where I am is not my real home. I always feel like an outsider. That’s true in every environment I enter. I am always alien. It’s like I don’t fit. There’s a lack of fit between me and other people. Like an extraterrestrial alien. I am stuck with humans. I don’t want to be with humans. I want to be with my own kind.

I think I come to the attention of important people. Powerful and important people. They take an interest in me. I don’t know why exactly. A psychoanalyst said to me, “You must think you’re an important person.” Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve had these thoughts since I was a kid.

It’s as if I live in the real world simply to go back to my private world and think about my experiences. Think about other people. But the actual living is not an end in itself. I can imagine myself as an old man living in exile, in a desert, writing my memoirs. The story of my life. But I will have fulfilled my purpose. Because my purpose in life was not simply to live life and have experiences. My real purpose was to live, have experiences solely for the purpose of creating fodder for my thoughts. Fodder for my imaginative recreation of life in my mind and in my writing. I could well imagine qualifying for a profession and end up losing my license. But that would be OK. Because then I could think about it and write about it.

You know, I have so many ideas about things, about the world that are not shared by other people. These ideas and perceptions of the world around me are not credible to other people. No one understands what I’m talking about. They dismiss me. They dismiss my thinking. I crave validation. But I don’t get it. And I try to prove to others that the world I see is real. And my attempts to prove these things, these private perceptions of the world, only seem to get me into more trouble.

The past is important to me. I worry about losing the past. It’s as if I am tormented by the past just perishing from memory. I struggle so hard to keep a memory of what’s gone on in my past. Maybe that’s why books are important to me. Books are a record of the past. As long as there are books, the past stays alive.

I live in silence. I go long periods without talking. When I am with people I’m lost in my thoughts. People say that about me. That I never talk. I have to make an effort to talk because I’m often not really aware of the presence of other people. I’m a serious person. I think about serious things. I don’t think about fun. Having fun in a conventional sense. I’m different from other people. Kind of like a freak. I suppose some people ridicule me.

I feel I have a message to bring to other people. Tell the world something. I don’t know what that message is. But I feel like a messenger with a message. I don’t think I would be a successful messenger. No one accepts what I say. No one cares about what I have to say. But I don’t stop. I’ll go on carrying my message.

I feel like I have no freedom in the world. In the outside world, it’s as if I wear a straightjacket. I retreat to my inner world. It’s where I am free. I’m happy there. It’s as if it’s my private playground of thoughts and satisfaction. I’m kind of happy with my situation in the sense that I get so much pleasure from inside myself. I forget about the outside world. But when I am faced with the real world of other people then I get an idea of how constricted I feel. But when I am in my private playground I am happy. I shut the world out. I’m able to do that. And I am grateful for my ability to do that.

I’m a strong willed person. I will carry out a plan with great determination. Even in the face of a lack of support from other people. And despite strong opposition from other people. Other people sometimes think I’m crazy. Some of the things I do are really crazy. But if I believe in what I am doing, I do it. I don’t care what other people say. What other people think. I am only concerned with carrying out my plan. Only my goals matter. No matter how seemingly crazy or futile.

How would I describe myself? I’m painfully self-conscious. I’m introspective. Hyperactively introspective. I’m intensely reserved. Full of self-doubt. People see me as unhappy and lonely. I guess I am. But I don’t think about being unhappy and lonely. I experience these things, but don’t think about them. I’m full of fears. I think of myself as cowardly, I suppose. Dishonest. I obsess over petty failures and failings. But I think I have an ability to persevere , think rapidly, and cut to the heart of a matter. I have a strong sense of duty and I work hard. But I’m guarded with nearly everyone.

I wish I had a close friend. A comrade-in-arms, I suppose. A kind of brother figure.

I wish I were famous. I crave that. To be recognized. To be one of the beautiful people. To be a celebrity. To be unique and famous. It’s like the expression, “One day my name will be in lights.” I think about that a lot. To be famous.

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