Misunderstood is a most intriguing word.
To be truly not understood. Not who you were, or what you did, or why you did it.
Not to be a mystery—not able to be understood—but to be misunderstood. To be understood incorrectly. To have your words taken and maimed, warped to fit someone else’s idea of what you were trying to say, write, or communicate. To have your meaning stolen and distorted, and then presented as truth.
In a way, I think we’re all misunderstood.
No one can tell how you really feel on the inside.
No one knows how you feel.
They just take what you do and say on the outside, and try to assign some kind of meaning to it, try to make you make sense to them. But really, we don’t always make sense.
Sometimes I think if we could read minds, we’d all just be a thousand times more easy to understand. On a base level, we’re rather simple. Or we seem that way, anyhow, until you get deeper, below that level. And then we can be complicated, and sometimes we misunderstand ourselves.
We’re most interesting creatures, wouldn’t you agree?
I don’t believe anyone has completely understood another person.
It’s glorious… and almost sad.
It’s a hard thing to be.