I sit, still to the noise after long periods of listening to appealing music that soothes my soul and placates my emotions
I wonder whether I may dream bigger, bolder, more coherently as the crows call on telephone wires outside my home
I suffer, yet I enjoy the dulling numbness that comes to me after the tuesday basketball games at the park and the coffeshop shambles of writing work of the middle class bread maker
My emotions are dynamite, they explode with fiery passion of not fitting in with the rest of the people that surround me, daily exercises of walking lonely halls and broken dreamed boulevards
Am I human? Am I Man? I question myself examinations concluding in whether my sanity has taken control of my mind.
Sentiments of people that watch the same shows, eat the same food, read the same books, yet they are not I, I am not who I think I am
Mirror images show me at my worst, yet when I look into the mirror I see a completely different fool
What does that make me? Am I just another person too drunk with emotion and too somber with talks of social suicide? Am I just another fly on the wall, an indefinite seat filler that does nothing more then observe?
I am a man of substance
I enjoy the arts the world has to offer
I enjoy the novels of the great writers that define generations
I enjoy rhythm that eventually becomes song
I enjoy life
Why am I so different, am I sick? Does it even matter, or am I wasting my time asking?