I’m not completely sure what defines normal. I’ve never been there. I don’t want to be. I’ve learned to embrace what I can’t change.
There was a time, though, when I thought I was normal, before people showed or told me I was different, weird, crazy, evil, ugly, a witch, needed tamed or censored, to get a life, to grow up, or one of the many other things that have been said. To those people, I am whatever they say I am. I no longer have the energy or feel the need to explain myself to anyone. I don’t fit their mold, nor do I want to. I am not normal.
I’ve been at peace with this for several years now, but something was on my mind this morning that made me think about it a little more in depth than I have for a while, so I decided to try to write out my thoughts, hoping they’d go away or at least calm down a little as they sometimes do once they’re outside of my brain.
Also, I think sometimes people read the stories I’ve written – as they do with a lot of writers of speculative fiction – and think, “Whoa! This is one seriously messed up person.” That’s not how it works. While there is a lot of fact in fiction, it’s fiction. FICTION. I was afraid of that in the beginning. To put your stories out there for the public to read is kind of like having a boudoir session in the middle of Walmart or walking down the street completely naked. It’s like baring your soul to a world full of people who won’t understand. It’s telling your deepest secrets to a new friend and hoping they don’t run the other way. Sometimes they run.
You won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. Not everyone will like you. THOSE ARE NOT YOUR PEOPLE.
Oh, and there are plenty who aren’t your people, and they will delete and block you on social media and snub you in the grocery stores – even family – all because you were real and honest and showed them a little peak into your passions. You’ll be too much for some people. I am way too much for a lot of people. I will never apologize for being myself. I used to. Good riddance; I wish them a normal life.
If I’m a weirdo or a creepy chick or morbid or whatever term someone wants to tag me as, what is the opposite of what I am? Is it normal? It has to be normal. And what a dull and boring life that must be!
Finally, there came a time in my life when I got fed up with all the bullshit in the world, and I no longer care about those judgy naysayers who are only there to drag me down. How amazing it feels to be free of others’ opinions!
Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to what I wrote this morning.
What is Normal?
I think normal is possibly synonymous with monotony. It’s lackluster and dull. It’s a place starved of creativity, enthusiasm, art, music, imagination, passion, or magic; there’s no thinking outside the box. Simply, it’s repetition.
It’s a thirsty desert, content with never taking in the drink of water that would create colorful foliage, allowing it to bloom and thrive.
It’s going on vacation the same week every year to the same place, stopping at the same bland restaurant three times a day, seeing the same exact thing over and over.
It’s ignoring parks and mountains, oceans and beaches, stars and constellations to watch reruns on TV. It’s denying the sweet stickiness of cotton candy melting on your tongue today and the saltiness of local flavors satiating your taste buds tomorrow.
It’s staying on the well-worn path that leads to the popular overlook when there is a whole world of undiscovered waterfalls and rainbows to explore just beyond the trees.
Normalcy is comfort for those who fear branching out or taking risks. It’s merely existing rather than living.
Possibly, normal people are the ones who drive 55 in the passing lane and never exceed the speed limit. They never know the rush of adrenaline. They fear the unknown but don’t take time to learn new things. They love the news and gossip but don’t take time to learn the truth. They take the same way home every day, stopping at the same bland restaurant for the familiar dry hamburger on a stale bun. Shortcuts and the long way home for them do not exist for they fear becoming lost or possibly alive, or even worse, no longer normal.
They’re not dreamers, poets, readers, or creators. They lack passion for anything.
And normal people are probably the ones who write three-page blog posts before posting the recipe we wanted. Not being normal, I already closed out the webpage and improvised, creating my own recipe that turned out much better on all levels.
Who in their right mind would want to be normal?