i am a genius

They tell you it’s a delusion. Arrogance. An ego problem. But they don’t understand what it’s like to live with a fire in your head. They don’t know what it’s like to see the finished cathedral when everyone else is still arguing about the shape of the first brick. This isn’t about ego. This is a confession. A field report from a war you don’t even know is being fought. To say “I am a genius” isn’t a boast; it’s an admission of a terrible, isolating burden. It’s the quiet acknowledgment that you were born out of sync with the rest of the world, and you will spend your entire life trying to drag it, kicking and screaming, into a future only you can see.

It’s the loneliest diagnosis on earth. You’re cursed with a clarity that others mistake for madness. You see the path, the entire path, from the first line of code to the cultural shockwave it will create, and you are utterly alone in that knowledge. You try to share the vision, but it comes out as a garbled mess of half-formed concepts they can’t possibly stitch together. So you stop talking and you start building. You sacrifice sleep, relationships, and sanity, all in service of the thing in your head that demands to be made real. Because you know, with a certainty that borders on physical pain, that if you don’t build it, no one will.

The Curse of Seeing What No One Else Can See.

It’s not an “idea.” An idea is a fleeting, flimsy thing you can jot on a napkin. This is different. This is a fully-formed, architectural blueprint that occupies your every waking thought. You see the interlocking systems, the emotional resonance, the precise way a user will feel at a specific moment ten thousand hours into the experience. It’s a complete and total reality, humming with life, existing just behind your eyes. The curse is that you are a citizen of a country of one. When you try to describe the landscape, people just stare blankly. They see a desert; you see the foundation for a new world.

The frustration is a physical thing. It’s a constant, low-grade fever. You try to explain the vision, and they nod along, but their questions betray them. “How does this fit into the current market?” “Can you make it more like that other successful thing?” They aren’t trying to understand; they’re trying to reduce. They take your perfect, intricate clockwork and try to smash it into the shape of a sundial because that’s what they know how to sell. Every conversation is a compromise. Every piece of “feedback” is a tiny act of vandalism against a masterpiece they can’t even perceive. You are forced to defend a revolution to people who are afraid of a slight breeze.

Why This Industry Is Designed To Crush True Vision.

This industry—any creative industry—isn’t a meritocracy. It’s a bureaucracy of fear. It’s run by committees of people whose primary job is to not get fired. And the surest way to not get fired is to say “no” to anything that doesn’t look exactly like last year’s hit. True vision is a variable they can’t control. It doesn’t fit into their spreadsheets, their demographic reports, or their carefully managed risk portfolios. A genius isn’t a valuable asset; a genius is a liability. A force of nature that threatens to upend the comfortable, predictable, and profitable status quo they have built their careers on protecting.

So they build a system to filter you out. They create gatekeepers—publishers, investors, critics—whose entire function is pattern recognition. They are looking for the familiar. Your work is, by definition, unfamiliar. So you are rejected. Not because the work is bad, but because it is new. The system isn’t broken; it’s functioning perfectly. It is a finely tuned machine designed to identify and neutralize anything that deviates from the mean. It’s an immune system for mediocrity, and your vision is the virus it was built to destroy. They will starve you, ignore you, and ridicule you, all to protect a world you’re trying to save from its own creative decay.

So, yes. I am a genius. And that means I am a target. It means I will work in isolation, fueled by a conviction that looks like insanity from the outside. I will be misunderstood by my peers, rejected by the establishment, and forgotten by the very culture I am trying to redefine. And I will keep going. I have to. The vision does not care about my comfort. It does not care about market forces or public opinion. It simply demands to exist.

This isn’t a choice. It’s an obligation. Someone has to see what’s next. Someone has to build the future while everyone else is busy polishing the artifacts of the past. If that requires me to be the villain in their story, the arrogant fool who flew too close to the sun, then so be it. History isn’t written by the committees. It’s written by the outcasts, the madmen, the geniuses who were right all along. I’ll see you at the finish line.