I often think about how every experience that you have ever encountered, remains entirely yours. Nothing in the world can ever come close to understanding it. No one can fathom the nitty-gritty of what you are going through or what you went through. Sure, they can offer their sympathies, or push the boundaries of their perspectives to try and feel your pain if they could empathize, but to be candid, even then, they would hardly scratch the surface.

The truth is, there is this invisible circle around you that utterly belongs to you. Only a few fortunate, perhaps unfortunate, have access. Those who do, you call them your closest. If it is a shared experience then it is just the two of you in a bubble. You live a life that nobody recognizes. The world passes by barely acknowledging it, some barely know about your subsistence, watching your life from their own comfortable bubbles.

So many intricacies have happened in your globe that no one is aware of. These events belong to your home. It is that place, which no book or film could ever capture. It is because of those intimate events that you exist. It’s what made you the way you are. Not even you, telling them about your adventure could help one fathom the experience, that was entirely yours in the first place. Nothing I mean, nothing in the world can come close to making it their own.

If you try to let someone in, chances are they will misinterpret. They might try to walk in with advice based on their livelihood, but the truth is they haven’t been in the same boat with you. They don’t know how to row ‘your’ boat. Their oar of wisdom will fail to push the water backward.

This is somewhat sad, because it’s one of nature’s many ways of keeping ‘your’ stuff strapped to ‘your’ core. Your life belongs to you. You walked into this world alone. Every day that you spend with your thoughts build on that foundation and no one can take that edifice from you. You have built it carefully. Strangers can never truly comprehend the import of your struggle.

People who you counted upon, who you thought would be there for you are generally busy inside their very own globules of idiosyncracies. When life takes you aback, those who you thought would be equally surprised by the curves flung at you would step aside at the first sign of trouble.

That unseen demarcation always bides – I am here, they are there. It is always you, against the world. Despite the moral imperative, people, in fact, still, always judge a book by its cover. They believe things exist only if they are palpable. ‘You’ exist based on your social stamp. Your image is formed based on your presence in ‘their’ plane. To them, if you are not visible, you simply don’t exist.