I write by biological mismatch

I write because I've always spent too much time inside my head, not intentionally, but because I was born that way. No, I never gave myself the privilege of judging myself worthy of writing to you, but here and now, what difference does it make? Why shouldn't I try the art of entertainment? Why don't I try to win a place in human society with the only thing I know how to do and the only thing I do — Besides getting flowers and pulling Herbal plants — That doesn't make me feel miserable?
For years and years I tried to be the same, I tried to adapt, but I couldn't. In the end I always failed. I was a journalist all my youth and I was exhausted. For the past 12 years I've been lost in the desert. I did things that, for my part, were like shock therapies. I tried to be everything I'm not, but I failed.
I'm not saying this to look interesting. I've always fought against being different. No one really wants to be different from the tribe. The first time I asked someone for help, the idea that I was asking for help because I felt superior to the rest was immediately mirrored, unfairly. One child or adolescent does not know what others are like; we only know what it costs us to be ourselves and how we cannot be, because it is inappropriate, unacceptable. It is not with objective precision that we become aware that there is something wrong with us, but the idea hovers and the inadequacy, rather than diminishing, grows until it burns, like living lime. The last thing we want to hear when we ask for help — for feeling like a blind candle, like the wind, trying to keep up with the reflections of others — It is not that we ask for help to be told that we are exceptional. Well thought out, the idea doesn't make sense, but that's what happened and so I tried my best to reduce myself to my mediocrity. So much so, that you can read as far as I went, as far as I walked, as far as the sail without destination let me go.
Now I'm tired. I'd rather be proper, but I'm not. I live too much in my head and not always in the world. That's all. Nothing extraordinary. There are other people like that, other kids like that. Of course, when you are born in 1974 in Portugal, you may or may never realize, after all, why I cannot do certain things very simple and easy, such as listening to people talking, unless it is because of life or death or a matter of great personal interest. I apologize to my friends who sometimes consider me a good listener. I've heard nothing so many times. Whole afternoons of conversations and I don't know where I was, but it was on another plane, where other possibilities of life revolved, another more exciting reality for me.
And that's it. I write because I don't live in pure reality. My reality is altered by a peculiar vision that I fought in vain, tried to supply, and was of no value. The animal machine that composes me always makes things on top of things, puts more words in every corner of the corners than those that fit on the corners. And then, after the desert, of so much the way, I am here, because my dream corners, my unbalanced perspective, my altered vision, maltrack, my perspective of the real perhaps less true, certainly less smooth, less formatted by the majority rule, less created by the view of the general square, by the boring human squad that tries in vain to flatten the wild nature of everything that exists, can make you dream too, laugh, hope, and cry, desire a little.
And that's it. It's pretty simple, but it took me almost my whole life to get here. Not because I didn't think I was capable, just because I thought I saw, "you don't deserve it." I do not write for any high reason, for a higher human value than "there are always things in front of others" (the idea of Fernando Pessoa), or for judging me something different than what I am. I write because I have to finally accept who I am, deserve it or not. Who cares anyway?