Be the stranger. Uphold the sparkle of the first glance. Be undefined. To be known and be loved has a slim chance.
The things familiar make me want to move. Comfortable habit makes me feel tired, and fooled. Being more or less awkward is my thing. The common reaction — not worth mentioning.
Nevertheless, I don’t have a choice. I never meant to choose my own voice. Now — standing out of the crowd is my typical zone. Not fitting in is my familiar home. Giving each corner just a brief touch. Leave a small print on each creature; not too much.
But the nervosa from being on my own drives me weary from the inside out. It’s the engine that pushes me, yet tires me out. My cozy nest merely a silent deep sleep. My tranquil home merely a hole to which I creep when the risk of my face, the one cut up and bruised, to be revealed is too great. It would only confuse.