BlushSpirals

I’ve always been fascinated by The Giver because of how it mirrors my own life. In a dystopian world where your job is predestined, one person is given both the privilege and the curse of holding the deepest truths collected over time. It fascinates and isolates him all at once. I’ve never actually seen how the movie ends—I’m notorious for falling asleep—but the concept still stands.

With the way my mind functions, I feel that same fascination and isolation. On one hand, I see the beauty in being able to look straight through things to the depth they hold. On the other, I know it’s a depth few people venture into.

So I’ve learned to separate my inner world from my more extroverted outer one, and to hold surface-level conversations. It’s not my forte, but I’ve learned it’s necessary—almost like a doorway. You build trust there first, and only then can you invite someone into deeper waters.

I rarely come across people who go to that depth with me, or maybe we just don’t arrive there at the same time. I don’t say that in a boasting way, more in a melancholic one.

Think of Ariel—longing to be where the people are, but set apart because she has a tail instead of legs. The world she wants to understand is held at arm’s length, while the one she comes from is a vast, beautiful abyss that people on land can’t really comprehend.

And while it’s nice to be a literary mermaid, I’ve learned how to transform my tail into legs and walk where the people walk. But it’s exhausting, and I still find myself longing for the place where everything feels effortless. I wish the two worlds could merge somehow, but there’s something about their nature that keeps them apart.

The point I’m getting at is this: I experience life as an outsider looking in. I’ve learned how to be an insider, but by default, my inner world will always feel richer than what exists outside of me.

I’ve learned how to live in both worlds. But the truth is, the one inside me will always feel more real than the one outside—and that makes everything out here feel just a little dimmer than it should.

Though it can feel dimmer, my inner world doesn’t leave me without—it just changes what I see. It casts a kind of spotlight, bringing certain moments into vivid detail while everything else fades into the background.

It’s like being in a football stadium where only the person holding the ball is lit up. You see it clearly—almost too clearly—but you miss the full scope of the field.

I imagine this is what it’s like being the giver. You hold fragments of memories that shine vividly, but you’re still missing the bigger picture.

If I could find a way to bring that same light into my outer world—to balance the two—maybe that’s when I’d finally feel whole in both. Until then, I’ll keep swimming in the depth of my inner world, noticing the small reflections it casts outside—little moments that remind me life is still worth living.