I love to write, but in my experience, many people do not enjoy reading, nor does it seem that very many people possess a sufficient attention span to place words into context so as to give them due consideration for proper interpretation these days. In fact, reading is often thought to be a laborious task to many people, ergo writing is seen in a similar light. It is, therefore, often assumed that writing “a lot” must be something spurred only by a great deal of emotion—that is, if a person is willing to go to such laborious lengths to express oneself. Unfortunately, this very often leads to misinterpretations, with anything more than a sentence or two on social media being construed as a “rant”. For one such as myself, however, writing is therapeutic, and sometimes the only way I am ever understood.
Imagine being in a foreign country where you don’t know the language of the locals and very few people understand the language that you speak. If you’ve ever experienced this, then you know that navigating such an environment can be very difficult, and even frustrating. In a world dominated by personalities, egos, and visual and audio stimulation, it can be difficult to express oneself via the written word alone. In the Information Age, particularly following the advent of social media, it is almost as if one is required to induce sensory overload within observers to even get a point across. Hell, just look at the social media engagement one shirtless photo gets compared to any of my written posts.
Now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the occasional ego gratification that can come from people lusting after my body and appreciating the hard work I put in at the gym, but this has never been how I prefer to express myself. Those that have followed me for a long while now know that I only recently began posting photos and selfies again. Personally, I find it to be an extremely exhausting endeavor, but…it’s not all bad, and I do very much enjoy some of the perks, if you catch my drift. Alas, when your actions and emotions are so often misinterpreted in person and writing is your primary means of recourse, it can at times be akin to living in a foreign land wherein most people are speaking a different language than you.
After all, everything is essentially but a form of communication—the transference of data representative of oneself and the reality in which oneself exists. So many people have their photos, or their art, or their music, but writing seems to be something of a quickly dying medium insofar as a form of expression and communication, at any rate. Now, I happen to be a decent orator and am possessed of other skills, as well, so I am able to manage, of course, but each and all have a most preferred medium of expression. Writing just happens to be mine.
Therefore, here I exist as a neurodivergent within a world that is quickly becoming alien to me—a daily struggle just to be understood even by those closest to me. And, within this fast-paced world in which many folks struggle just to survive on a daily basis, who can blame them for not taking sufficient time to understand a whole other individual? Admittedly, it is a little selfish to beg too much of another’s time just for that person to decipher you in a manner that does not quickly convey the point, but therein lies the struggle: the written word just isn’t people’s first language anymore; and thus, ever more alien shall I become.