different

Sometimes I pity them for being so simple; for not dreaming as much, for finding pleasure to small things. They’re just too shallow. I look at them with disgust, with shame! They could be more, they could have done more but no, they content themselves with the little things that they have.

I prided my self for being complicated, for my flying ambitions, for having a high taste of art, for being considered intellectual (or perhaps I’m just pretending to be one? I have proven so little. Or maybe I have not proven anything yet…) But who is suffering more? Who… Why… Why do I feel wretched, lost? Being deep I am drowned. Flying high I can’t breath. The more I thought I am magnanimous the more I come to pity myself for magnanimity because the more I see that I am useless, senseless, different. Yes, different!

…I wish I am normal.