The Ones Who Don't Bend

On Solitude, Genius, and the Cost of Not Belonging

History remains the harshest memory book, filled with the great ones who lived refusing to shrink themselves. Yet, often, they only leave a mark once they’re gone—when the tides have finally turned.

The Price of Genius

A breeze brushes my face. The infinity pool ends where the sea begins, and I’m soaking at the edge of a country. Alone, though a team of security guards stands behind me.

The waves crash. My hair moves with the wind. And for once, life is still. Gentle. Not asking anything from me. This is the peace I rarely get.

Most days, I give. I give until I bleed. I design homes for others so they can live in beauty—but I forget to live in mine.

They call me a snob. Tell me I don’t understand real pain.

One classmate once spat at me, “You’ll never know what it’s like to be dumb,” she yelled. She was right. I don’t. But she doesn’t know what it’s like to be mocked for being too intelligent. Too intense. Too much. To be the one people want to dim. To be hated for an aptitude percentile of “99.9+%”

This is nothing new. History is filled with misunderstood geniuses. Einstein, the most influential mind of the 20th century, struggled to find work for years. Van Gogh, likely colorblind, created masterpieces that were never truly appreciated in his lifetime—he died poor and mentally unstable. Beethoven composed the haunting Moonlight Sonata while grappling with deafness. Leonardo da Vinci never married, never belonged, but quietly broke every human boundary in secret. His genius was only recognized centuries later.

We praise them now, but they weren’t safe when they were alive.

Kindnesses That Matter

History also forgets the kindnesses. The friend who helped me move when I was sick. The groceries I bought for a stranger, along with the bouquet I added because it was Mother’s Day. The acts that won’t go down in books. But they were real. And they mattered.

The Isolation of Difference

Sometimes I ask: is any of this worth it?

The giving. The silence. The nights eating alone in some dim restaurant corner like Tesla did. The way I’ve shrunk myself to fit into rooms that were never built to hold me. To stand among taller, wealthier men who were not half of me.

It’s funny how we applaud the dreamers, but only after they’re dead. We call them legends, but in life we treat them like freaks. I don’t envy the people who made it into history books. I admire the ones who stayed sane. Or tried to.

Tony Stark, a fictional genius, supposedly drank to dull his mind, to connect with a world that didn’t understand him. Many of us have felt that way—silencing our truths, hiding our tears, eating alone in a crowded world.

The mad artists. The misunderstood scientists. The quiet revolutionaries.

Living Outside the Box

This world asks us to break ourselves down just to fit into a box. It rewards the performance of humility, not actual brilliance. It tells us to hide our sadness, hold our tongue, and laugh at things that aren’t funny.

But I can’t pretend anymore. I’m done avoiding the truth that keeps offending small people.

Done bending. Done folding.

The Easiest Truth

Yes, I am difficult.

Yes, I am sharp.

Yes, I am unbearably talented.

And no, I don’t want to be like everyone else.

Embracing My Own Current

We are all just waves. Crashing and disappearing. So why do we waste so much time trying to be palatable?

I want to live like the wave.

Full. Loud. Crashing.

And gone.