I’ve always treasured empathy as the particular privilege
of the invisible, the observers who are shy precisely because
they sense so much—because it is overwhelming to say even
a single word when you’re sensitive to every last flicker
of nuance in the room.
I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other
people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in
such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I
am alone, all alone, all alone.
A
lot of people who are artists don’t understand it
themselves. Especially the young ones. They feel different, but
they don’t know what it is. They feel more. Everything
hurts. Everything. They’re super sensitive. They see things
that other people don’t see.