I have always wondered,
what it is like to be normal,
even just for one day.
The curse is engraved within me.
I just wanted to be the usual one,
or I could not.
But please,
there is no need to feel like I need to suffer.
Just to find who I am—
just to find the truth.
Who knows the real truth?
The face of its own is ruined,
trying to perfect every part.
Perfection leads to death,
art is not about perfecting the whole shade.
There is no such perfectionism,
half-true,
half-real,
the endless essentialism.
There is so much terror in knowing everything,
more on,
being aware of your own fear.
Knowing the chasm of your own self,
the dark abyss no one has ever entered but me,
the bottomless pit they could not climb except for the monster inside me.
Please . . .
oh,
please—
knock on the metal door,
who knows I might open up my rusting heart?
Who knows that a long time ago,
in a very far away land,
I have built sand.
Where there was this silent lake I created myself,
and I did not know how to build a bridge over it,
for people to hear the sound of my . . .
empty . . .
shouts . . .
cries.
Why can’t I just be normal?
Why am I feeling things the way it should not be?
Why can’t I just be normal?
Why should I have to feel this way?
It might have been better if I was others—
in that way,
I would not feel this,
and I would be normal.
The feeling was,
it was like someone's painting,
is slowly fading.
