Feeling misunderstood—a universal human experience, one we cannot bear without despair, one we cannot think of without tormenting ourselves; to most, all we want is to be understood, for where else would warmth reside, what other sweet embrace could we ever wish to be consumed by? Is not understanding everything? Is not understanding a necessity?!
But is self-pity not a necessity too?! Is being understood not what we attempt to avoid with all our being, is being understood not the worst thing to happen to our narrative, our most sacred thing…? For the man who believes he is misunderstood can whisper to himself, “Oh, I am only this way because they can’t understand me—I am only this way because I am so special,” and finally, “I am only this way because I am better!” And this pride, superiority, a sense of distinctiveness, is that not the warmth of being misunderstood…?
Being seen is a curse, not objectively, but to the worst and most despicable of minds, to the exceptions; for what is more tragic than being normal as an exception—what is more tragic than not being completely special or completely normal: what is more tragic than being hated by everyone, yet not better than anyone…! Oh, how being misunderstood becomes so delicious, oh, how we have mistaken the warmth of misunderstanding as a curse, and oh, how much we have misunderstood misunderstanding!
Being understood is terrifying; it means facing something unbearable, unpleasant, undoable: you aren’t rejected because they don’t get you—you are rejected because they get you, maybe even intimately so; be it through the most icy of indifferences or the most scorching of hates: you cannot hide how undesirable you are... Oh, how the delusion of being misunderstood must consume us again: oh, how ungrateful we were towards being misunderstood!
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