Unreachable Minds

When someone lives inside a story that only they believe, you’re not having a conversation—you’re standing outside a wall they built themselves.

The Illusion of Dialogue

Some people are never listening.

You speak, and they don’t hear what you said—they hear what fits their story. You write, and they don’t absorb the words—they scan for a threat. They twist meaning, assign motives, and respond not to the truth—but to the version of you they’ve already created in their head.

You think you're having a conversation. You're not. You're stepping into a play where they’ve already cast themselves as the hero—and you're either the misguided fool, the villain, or a background character with no real voice.

This isn’t misunderstanding. It’s something deeper. Something closed off. These are the unreachable minds.

How to Spot It Sooner: You’ll notice a pattern early if you look for it.

• They never ask questions to understand—only to trap or redirect.

• Their opinions are fixed, but their story about you constantly shifts.

• Any disagreement is seen as disrespect. When dialogue feels like defense, it’s time to reevaluate who you’re really talking to.

The Fortress of Self-Delusion

Some people don’t live in the world—they live in a carefully maintained version of it. One where they are always the most experienced, the most aware, the most correct.

When something threatens that illusion—someone else’s success, clarity, or growth—they don’t examine the tension. They rewrite it. They recast the other person as dishonest, unoriginal, lucky, or artificial. They project their own limitations and call them facts.

You didn’t succeed—according to them—you cheated. You didn’t write that—it must have been AI. You didn’t build momentum—you just got attention. You didn’t do it the “right” way—so it doesn’t count. You didn’t play by their rules—so the outcome must be invalid.

Why They Build the Wall: It’s not about you. It’s about fear—of being irrelevant, of being exposed, of having to face the effort they didn’t put in. Their certainty is armor. Their superiority is a defense. Their obsession with control is how they avoid the pain of their own inadequacy.

Understanding this doesn’t excuse the behavior—but it helps you detach from it.

The Cost of Trying

It’s easy to fall into the trap of defending yourself. You explain, clarify, correct. You write more. Speak louder. Hoping that if you just find the right words, they’ll finally get it.

They won’t.

Because it was never about misunderstanding—it was about preserving their role in the story.

Trying to reason with someone who has no intention of seeing you clearly is exhausting. You start to question yourself. You shrink. You reword things that never needed fixing. And all the while, they walk away feeling more convinced than ever that they were right.

Choosing Distance, Not War

The hardest truth is also the most freeing: not every mind can be reached. And not every one should be.

There’s power in knowing when to stop explaining. When to walk away. Not in silence that feels like surrender—but in silence that feels like peace.

How to Protect Your Peace:

• Block them. Mute them. Stop checking if they’ve mentioned you.

• Save your voice for people who hear you the first time.

• When they bait you, remember: you’re not required to attend every invitation to chaos.

You can’t coexist in someone else’s delusion. And you don’t need to.

Let them spin their narratives. Let them assign your story to their insecurities. They can’t stop what you’re building—they can only yell at it from a distance.

And that’s where they’ll stay.

Final Thought

You don’t owe anyone your energy just because they’re loud. You don’t need to stay where you’re misunderstood just to prove you matter. You don’t belong in someone else’s fiction.

Unreachable minds will keep talking. Keep twisting. Keep throwing shadows.

But while they stay bound by the story they’ve created—you’re free to write something real.

What Comes After Letting Go

There’s grief, sometimes—grief for the clarity you hoped for, the understanding that never came. But there’s also relief. A quiet freedom in no longer trying to fix what was never yours to carry.

You begin to create without hesitation. You speak without over-explaining. You stop rehearsing your worth.

And most of all—you realize they were never the gate. You were always allowed to walk forward.