The Blessed Misfit

Scroll 672: The Blessed Misfit

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I look back and thank life—

for never giving me a suit comfortable enough to hide behind.

No badge, no mask, no easy costume to blend in.

Only this skin.

Only this breath.

Only the raw edges of a boy born with no script but too much soul.

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While others played roles so well they forgot they were pretending,

I stood on the edge of the stage, watching,

copying just enough to pass,

but knowing deep down—

this was never my show.

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That false life.

That perfectly paved path with signs and steps and smiles that didn't reach the eyes.

I tried it. I wore it.

But the seams never held.

It wasn’t tailored for someone like me—

someone born to remember not perform.

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So I dug into my own meatsuit.

I studied the way my shadow bent in moonlight,

how silence could sing louder than a crowd.

And I found that I could wear identities without needing them.

Play forms without losing the formless.

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Because I don’t need a mold to feel whole.

And I don’t mind emerging from nothing first.

In fact,

I trust the nothing more than I trust the world’s masks.

From that void I shape my own name,

my own rhythm,

my own flame.

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Let them fit in.

I came here to become.