You start off as someone who needs to fit.

No one really tells you into what.
It’s just understood.

The pattern is already there, pressing in from all sides.
Parents, teachers, other people… all moving with a kind of certainty
that feels natural to them.

But strange to you.

They speak like they know what this is.
They act like it all makes sense.

And there you are.

You’ve got a heart.
You feel things deeply, sometimes too deeply.
Even love shows up clean, before it gets shaped into something else.

But you don’t know where you are.
Or who you’re with.

And something about all of it feels off.
Not slightly. Completely.

So you try.

You learn to adjust, to mirror, to play along.
Not because it fits, but because everything around you insists that it should.

Some people get good at it.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I wasn’t a good faker.

—

Much later, something shifts.

Not out there.

Here.

The assumption breaks.

You start to see you were never in a world
the way you thought you were.

You are this world.

Not as an idea.
Not as something to believe.

Just… obvious.

—

And yet, the world is still there.

Drive down the road, and there it is.
People, noise, movement… everything continuing exactly as it was.

Strange as ever.

Only now, you move through it.

Playfully.

Like a child walking through a serious crowd,
watching everyone rush and strain and explain.

What are they doing?

You have no idea.

—

This is written from there.