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The following is an excerpt from my writing notebook, dated April 3, 2017.
Sometimes I wish that I were an open book so that if by some chance, I might be understood, cherished, or admired, though thankfully in reality I’m not an open book. There’s something beautiful about being mysterious. I tend to keep my thoughts and feelings bottled up inside, posting some of my better thoughts and ideas on my blog, perhaps as evidence of sorts to support my claims of high intelligence. My anxiety and depression comes when too many people read it, or when I don’t get the reaction I was seeking. I regret sharing some things, though trivial and unimportant for fear of being judged.
I have an exceptionally well-documented high IQ, which is both a blessing and a curse.
I am unique though more than anything, misunderstood. Everyone is different in some way, I am different in every way.
I never stick to the plans I make and often lose sight of hopes and dreams. Dreams come to fruition slowly and are often not as glamorous once I achieve them.
I am often bored, and insatiably unsatisfied by the way things are, frustrated by the things in my life that I cannot change.
I want to be known and recognized for the things I have created, achieved, or accomplished, though I’d prefer to hide from the spotlight most of the time.
I long to be in the company of successful and influential people, though every time those moments occur I’m often disappointed when I realize that these people really aren’t whom they one made me believe they were.
I am hypersensitive and am insecure over the tiny details of my existence as well as my shortcomings. When one subconsciously internalizes this type of pain, one then subconsciously obsesses over the flaws and shortcomings of those around them.
The header image was created using Canva, and the font used is Alfa Slab One.
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