The unbearable heaviness of being.

I had an odd lucid dream some days ago, and it was transcendently depressing. 

I've long experienced a profound frustration with other people.  That manifested in my mid teens as a palpable rage about the incompetence and idiocy of others, but grew to be a begrudgingly accepted truth as i grew older. 

It was embodied by a phrase i used to describe how i felt about the phenomena, 

"You can't fault a dog, for being a dog." 

I've read so much in my life between those age goalposts, and seen my initial feeling echoed out in the idea space by pained and tortured scientists, authors, artists and intellectuals throughout time.  Expressing a persistent melancholia about being so removed from others.  

The issue of autism acceptance can cut both ways you see, with you not wanting to accept me for my unique abilities being the most common manifestation, but also with me not able to connect to yours. Even though my desire to connect is sincerely genuine.

When you are truly gifted at something, be it language or science or art or music or even building a cement foundation, interaction with others attempting that same thing look positively oafish.  Co-mingling with them is irritating, there unfinished gangly attempts brushing up against the polished surfaces of your very skin. 

The bricklayer who is a true master see's idiots and imbeciles in his fellow bricklayers and takes no joy in it.  The initial swell of ego often pursued vociferously by others is long gone for these masters.  It's unwelcome replacement is this untenable disappointment that moves in to fill the void. 

You want to be surrounded by people of equal competence, not merely accepted but integrated with communication that flows in both directions.  However if you are superior at a given thing, that communication is always unidirectional.  You are always having to advise, correct, repair, and refurbish the efforts of the average people that comprise the majority of humanity. 

It is, in a word, unsatisfying. 

And this ANGST, this ineffable thing that i've detected in written works for so long that these masterful sorts express, is a result of an unfortunate conundrum they find themselves embroiled in.  

A good person can not HATE or DISDAIN a person of lesser ability simply on the grounds that he or she may be in one or many dimensions, inferior to him or herself.  

"You can't fault a dog for being a dog."

You can't fault a human for being, average. 

But this offers little to no comfort to the gifted, as now there is no grounds to expect or have hope for the average party to mysteriously metamorphosize into a gifted person.  Some abilities and gifts are inborn, genetically encoded, and no amount of push up's or reading of Proust will change that.

In my dream i was a father like figure, teaching someone how to ride a bike, with training wheels.  And while i am happy for the person i have taught, and this achievement is certainly worthwhile and significant  in their development, i and overwhelmed with sadness at the gulf that this reveals between us. 

"You can't fault a dog for being a dog."

And it wouldn't make me feel any better, if i could. 

I am "Gifted" this angst, this profound and deep sadness, and there seems to be nothing anybody can do about it. 

I wish to be with you. I wish to be like you. I wish to be inside, looking out at the grey drizzle.

And if wishes were horses,

beggars would ride.