For Geniuses

The Intro from my short story for Geniuses based on a Friend that I have met on here that is one

There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes with being a genius.

Not the loneliness of being misunderstood , though that comes too, eventually, once the world catches on. This is the earlier kind. The kind that arrives before anyone is watching. The quiet, private discovery that your mind works in a way that has no name yet, no category, no respectable place to put itself. You feel it the way you feel a word sitting on the tip of your tongue. Something is there. Something real. Something that belongs entirely to you. And when you try to explain it to the world, the world stares back at you. Performing patience. Expecting translation.

The world has a complicated relationship with genius. It loves the idea of it. It builds museums for it, names awards after it, puts it on magazine covers. What it is less comfortable with, what it has never quite learned to sit still for, is genius that doesn’t arrive in an expected shape. The world’s first instinct is never to examine its own expectations. It is to examine the genius.

Nobody gets to choose what they are a genius at. It arrives the way it arrives. And it does not ask permission.