Misunderstood

"Writing was not her only art form, but she did write with her soul.

She wrote about the darkness that consumed her and society, how we live in a broken world. She claimed to have been writing since childhood, but there are no records of such works.

Her writing spanned all mediums, from short stories to novels, poetry, blogs, and even lyrics and musical compositions. She was daring with her writing, contravening the conservative, simple trends and styles of her time. Her passions included other art forms, producing independent films, and photographing local events.

She was a true Renaissance woman of her time, juggling science with art. She paved the way for other women in her field to also start their own technology businesses. Her creative works were lesser known, as she was anonymous with her writing, maintaining Pen Names. Several of her works may be never be identified, as her identity was completely detached from her art."

I can imagine such an author profile to be written in my honor and memorandum. While factually many of the details may be accurate, as many eulogies or biographies go, they write from someone else's point of view, the third person perspective. Very rarely do strangers know what is truly going on in someone's head or veins. They will never understand the constant loneliness. How I felt like I was living in a different dimension, a different plane than those around me. That there was always this disconnect.

They will never know how involved I was with my community and how passionate I was to strengthen it. Nor all the sustainability efforts which I put in to improve our environment. For my presence was always on the ground and getting my hands dirty. Just another resident and community member doing what I can for the youth and for our third spaces. They'll never know that I gave everything I could to those around me, my family and my friends. That I was hyper aware and meticulous with the inconspicuous details.

They will merely mention the arid information on ink and paper, lacking flavor or color. Similar to how many stunning people are not photogenic at all, because their aura is what makes them so beautiful, this "picture" of my life they portray, will be missing my aura. Especially if someone I never met wrote it. How could they possibly know who I truly am as a person. How could a stranger understand the burdens I bear, my internal and external demons which show up in my work? That I spread myself thin, because it's just my calling, because it has to be done?

A stranger will never understand the history, the secrets, the hardships I have seen and endured. How I have been broken by so many that I have grown numb. They will merely read my poetry, and think my writing is evocative.