There are certain types of people who just aren’t quite made to fit into the world. People who, for whatever reason, can’t or won’t go along with the whole shebang. I mean all of it and any of it – the whole idea of what life is supposed to be. They don’t want it.
These are the people who inevitably fascinate me. People who don’t fit, and you always sort of know that they aren’t made for this world, and might not even last very long in it. Unique in the purest sense, I suppose, because they really are rare.
I’m sure a lot of these people go about their lives under the radar. They don’t fit, they know they don’t fit, and so they do things their own way without anyone else ever really taking note of it, except the ones who know them. I should say the ones lucky enough to know them, because when you meet someone like that, you’re completely aware that you’re in the presence of something different. There’s no need to treat it with reverence, or see it as something better than whatever you have or whatever you are – just be aware of it. Because chances are you won’t find a person like that more than once or twice in your entire lifetime.
There are the Edie Sedgwicks, Hunter S. Thompsons, and Jack Kerouacs of the world of course. People who blazed into the world like a fire cracker and shot across the cultural sky just long enough to change everything, before inevitably being extinguished. People you know (or should know), who wrote brilliant things and did brilliant things, but never thought of it as brilliant because it’s just how their brains worked. People who it almost seems wrong to think of as something so different and incredible, because they themselves would resent it. Different? No. Just me being me. Which always sort of stuns me personally, because I can’t imagine any version of my self ever being so singularly fascinating. I could try, of course, but the whole point of these people is that they didn’t try to be who they were. They just were.
I hesitate to say that they are are my heros, because to look at it objectively their lives were messes. And they didn’t function in society in a normal way. But damn, they were brilliant. And I think that kind of mind just can’t function in society normally because it doesn’t work the same as other minds. Which is good. We need those kinds of people. Sometimes I wish I was that kind of person, or wonder if I could be if I let myself. How many of us have that in us, but ignore it and try instead to be some version of normal that we at least half way believe will make us happy? And maybe it will make us happy, in the end. Which is great. But there is more than one kind of happiness.
Square pegs, round world. Endlessly interesting.