I don’t think I was simply born in the wrong time

I don’t think I was simply born in the wrong time.

It’s not that another decade would’ve welcomed me more, or that a different world would’ve held out its hand. I think—no, I know—that whatever era I’m thrown into, I will always be the kind of person the world rejects.

Not because I’m unbearable. But because I’m unwilling. Unwilling to smile when I’m hurt. Unwilling to perform normalcy to make others comfortable. Unwilling to accept the cheap scaffolding of false promises and transactional relationships.

I don’t adapt easily. I don’t forget injustice just to keep going. I’m the kind of person who remembers. And the more I remember, the harder it becomes to fit anywhere.

I’m too intense for the ones who want everything to be light. Too honest for the ones who survive by lying to themselves. Too solitary for a world built on performative connection.

I’ve stopped asking when I’ll finally be understood. Maybe I won’t. Maybe that’s not the point.

Maybe some of us were never meant to be understood in the time we live in. Maybe our role is to carry the unbearable truths—raw, unfinished, bleeding—and survive anyway. Not for recognition. Not for belonging. But to prove that something different is possible. Even if no one believes it yet.

And if I’m to be rejected in every era, let it be because I refused to be anything but myself.