They only see what you show, what is explicit and portrayed - but are blind to your interiority, your structure - and all that which constitutes your soul.
They do not get you, but they think they do. And so you are not an enigma to them, because they donβt even realise the vast puzzle that you are. And so how could they ever be real to you, when they donβt even perceive your mystery?
The only people who are real to you, are the ones who truly see you, or at the very least feel the burning questions that your very being raises for them.
Everybody else means nothing to you, because they believe they get you when they donβt, because you are unseen by them even when visible to them, and unknown to them even when heard by them: you are beyond their reach - for they are not of you and nor are they for you - just as you are not for them.
You are so wondrously complex, that in their dismissive blindness they deem you simple. You are not the same, for just as an ant cannot grasp a lion, a mere mortal cannot grasp the divine.