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There is something profoundly cruel about finding the truest reflection of your being only in mythology, art, and fiction as though your very existence were something permitted only in dreams and ancient legends. It is an existentially sick joke.

It is a quiet never ending grief to mourn a form you have never worn, to crave for a world that might have recognized you, and to spend your life translating something sacred within yourself into shapes that others can understand enough to affirm you.

Perhaps the cruelest part is not simply being unseen but knowing that the closest the world may ever come to recognizing your soul is through the imagination of another. It is so hard to translate this into words sometimes but it truly never ends.