I’ve always had a sense of how not normal I am, and it brings with it a sense of aloneness. I am not socially stunted. (To say the least.) But that doesn’t change the fact of this aloneness which clings to me.
The writing backwards was of course a very obvious thing. A marker of strangeness which was undeniable in itself. Something to hide and a powerful secret.
The discovery that Leonardo DaVinci did it as well first flooded me with feelings of relief. I wasn’t wholly alone. But comparing oneself to DaVinci, even in one’s own head, is dicey, to say the least.
(Although when I read my first biography of him and especially his own words, soon after my parents death, it filled me with astonishment after astonishment. I put the book down on several occasions as I sat gasping for air. It felt like me writing to myself. My thoughts, often using my own words, or so close so as not to matter.)
I’ve never admitted that to anyone for obvious reasons, but I am right now intent to examine myself and to be honest and unmerciful about what I find. I’ve spent many years stating that I had nothing to lose on that front.
I was so wrong.
My reputation has become all that matters to me and have now lived a good many years knowing that my character is, and has always been, the only thing in question. And it still is.
And there lies the rub. Because the truth is a threat. And I haven’t fared well against allied, raw power in the past, to put it mildly.
But I have an idea. Finally. And it’s growing on me.