Thought.
You think me in danger of becoming an unhappy being, from my turn of thought and taste. Young as I am, I feel the truth of your observation. I differ from those I converse with, they mortify and disappoint me, I draw back with disgust; I raise wonder, and perhaps hatred also. Sometimes my reserve is construed into pride and affectation. When I am talkative my ideas are laughed at, as inconsistent with the opinions of the world; my conduct and character are not understood, and I am stigmatized with being romantic, that is, ridiculous. What am I to do? either I must give up the world or my own faculties. Am I born to say, “Yes, certainly,” and “that’s right,” when my conviction impels me to say, “No, I doubt,” and “that’s wrong?”