Being born a dyslexic is akin to being born with an ugly face. 

There’s no ‘community for the ugly’. 

You simply wish you were not ugly. 

But that wish for something other than what you are undermines the foundations of confidence; 

it undermines your belief in the qualities you might hold.

It stares back at you, as if from a mirror, 

with frustrating and painful regularity.

And people look at you differently,

Judging for being a deficient.

Some might support with denial: 

‘to me, you are not ugly: you are beautiful,’

or deflection, saying, 

‘you are beautiful on the inside and that’s what matters,’ 

But these platitudes feel hollow.

With dyslexia there is the attitude from people that it can be overcome

‘with application and hard work;’ 

‘with the right exercise or effort you will no longer be ugly,’

‘Eventually you can be embaced into the communion of the normal’.

This sets in motion a self-loathing-fuelled life-quest against the affliction, against the self; 

a quest to hurdle or melt this wax-like mask of a figure into something admirable, 

into something people might applaud even before the performance has begun

through some retrospective time-warp.

I have believed that people who are not dyslexic are the disabled.

They don‘t realise that it is they that are the disabled.

Unlike ‘them’, I have insightful thoughts; 

I can travel unimpeded through my mind. 

Who cares if I am in a wheelchair when I can levitate?

But levitation is impossible, right? 

And even if it were possible by some miracle, 

in truth the miracle would be no bloody use to anyone. 

Levitation turns out to be pointless; 

of… no… use!

For it is an impotent invisible gift.

And the ‘wow’ moment… or is it insanity:

to be somewhere so distant to the norm

to see the earth and yet to be so far from it.

It is like there is something in my chest wanting to scream myself to oblivion.

I am the rhino with the itchy back, 

the gorilla with the deep eyes of knowing and recognition but wherein lies a void of understanding,

Like the insect walking purposefully across the bathroom floor.

How can I communicate where I am… 

the lonely insanity that I inhabit… 

the utter separateness I feel…

To whom am I speaking? 

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