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 cannot I just be normal?
Why am I feeling things the way it should not be?
Why cannot 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.
