I'm not sure where you're from, but I wonder if they fly not walk there. Do they breathe water not air? Do they live in rainbows? Do they all hear light and shadows like you do? Some people work hard to achieve wealth, others for accolades and trophies, trophy wives, but you my dear, work the hardest of all, simply to exist. Your soul is taking a study of what it's like to be human. Your words are delicate. Your body, delicate. You even sleep delicately.
But your eyes, your eyes are on fire.
You can blend in if you want to, but one look into your eyes and your cover is blown.
You're not from here. You're experiencing what it would be like to be from here. It's not an easy task you've been given, being human, having a form to live in. I don't think you like it a whole lot, but that's only because you are more soul than flesh. You see the fairy dust in the gutters, the delicate nuances of being alive, the grace of standing still or marking a cup of coffee or just scraping your knee.