Outside, across the putrid moat and under the dark mute trees, I would often lie and dream for hours about what I read in the books; and would longingly picture myself amidst gay crowds in the sunny world beyond the endless forests.
Oftentimes in a society when people of a certain type, whether individual or a group, are subconsciously portrayed by the media as abnormal, they also slowly, subconsciously become enemies of that society due to feelings of cultural guilt. Ultimately by this the inflated media is an enemy of its very own cause.
You are a mask.You are nothing more!There is nothing behind your mask,not a face,nothing!I shall fly in the fullness of the night.Under the moon and the stars I shall hunt the vole,the rat,even the fox.I shall become part of owlkind,no matter where I have to go.But I shall go!And I shall never ever return to the Pure Ones.I defy you.I HAVE FREE WILL!”
We’re the gray area, angel. We’re the pieces of the puzzle they don’t know what to do with, the pieces that don’t quite fit into their perfect little picture, so they choose to discard us, to keep their image untainted, but we can only be ignored for so long. Because eventually, whether they want to admit it or not, all of their black and white will bleed together anyway.
There’s always one sure way of finding out that you’re a misfit. When you’re eleven years old, and your friends are telling you that they just sneaked into the theater to watch ‘Twilight’ and that it was “sooooo emotional and sooooo terrifying and soooooo romantic!” – but you’ve been spending the summer watching ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ and ‘Don’t Look Now’ and knowing the lines to all the Alfred Hitchcock films by heart – that’s the moment you realize that you’re a misfit.
Outcasts, callused from being in exile for too long, learn to thrive on being the hated; the attention and infamy of our actions fuel us to become antiheroes. Too often do we forget: we risk self-destruction if we fail to follow what we know is right; our talents too often become misplaced, misdirected, misguided from what could have been something wonderful.
Not being liked was so much worse than being invisible.
Half of the time I don’t know what they’re talking about; their jokes seem to relate to a past that everyone but me has shared. I’m a foreigner in the world and I don’t understand the language.
People like us are dead to society unless we’re pretentious, tell people what they want to hear, take off our clothes, or pretend to be like them.
Look for the person everyone hates, and love them.