I don’t know why
but being different is important to me.
Does it give me happiness?
Not always.
Does it give me clarity?
Not always.
Does it give me money?
Never.

But still, I have to be this way.
I guess it gives me a bit of meaning.
But if I brood too much,
that meaning is lost.
I guess it gives me a soul,
But if I commercialise it that soul is lost.
I guess it gives me a bit of passion,
my raison d^etre,
But there could be so many better reasons to live,
There could be so many reasons not to live,
And my pen can’t take the weight to counter them all.

Maybe it gives me some goals,
But I never complete them till the end –
An end that can be recognized
An end that concludes a dream.
But what exactly is this dream?
To create, and abandon?
To wander, lost and confused?
To fix, and break something else in the process?
To explore, this endless world?
only to know
that you don’t know shit?

Sometimes I wish I was like everyone else
or whatever I think everyone else is like
But I know I can’t be that
being normal is boring,
and being different is exciting,
being different is freedom!
But freedom at what cost?
The corpses of expectations,
The greener grass of the path not taken,
The tormentors from the land of uncertainty,
And the goddess of procrastination,
asking for hours and hours
of daily worship.

But when I create anything
everything melts away
My creation
compensates for the lack of a company,
it compensates for the apparent lack of purpose
and even though it’s not a magnum opus
I love it.
It doesn’t make me exactly that different
but it gives me the illusion that I am
and nothing else seems to matter
until the last brush stroke,
until that last one word.

It doesn’t make sense.
But being this way
somehow feels the right way to be.
I don’t know why.

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