We can't accept being "average".
We love calling other people "average".
All those squares over there, you know,
"So... average!"
In essence, then
Aren't we all just average people
Living average lives
In average houses and flats
All over the average world.
Are none of us extraordinary?
Use name-callers and egotists?
Somewhere inside,
We all know what we are.
We're just these small people
Living small lives,
Lying to ourselves.
Saying someday, we'll be extraordinary.
We all have the nagging feel,
Weighing us all down slowly.
That stone in our hearts,
That lets us down.
Us average folks,
All over the lands.
We are all just little
Normal
Ones.
Afraid to say we are all the same.
Afraid to say
That those people over there,
Are hardly different from you.
And these people right here.
One and the same.
Average.
Differences,
Yes.
Of course,
We are not all just cookie-cutters of one another.
Instead,
We're all just a little more similar to everyone else
Than we're comfortable with.
Average
Makes people squirm
And protest.
You know something?
I don't think destiny is real.
As in,
I don't think I believe in it.
We aren't all pre-ordained to some walk of life.
We are not born into a life path.
As children
We dream of being doctors.
How many of us become so?
Destiny is not the hand on our shoulder
And the wind at our back.
It's some little memento we cling to in despair.
It's all some sort of part of a "master plan".
Preposterous.
Make your own 'destiny'.
Steep it deep in your soul
And guide it,
Don't let it guide you.
Blindly following something
Is ignorant.
Pointless.
If destiny was so much as a wisp
Of reality
I might think differently.
But I like to think
(Perhaps it's all an illusion)
That I am making my own way in the world,
per se.
Or at least,
Some day,
I shall.
For now,
There is much I must succumb to.
But it is all for the better.
All for who I am.
Because who am I,
But this being right here?
I can be nobody else,
Everyone else's body
Is already taken.
I have no skin to crawl in
But my own.
No feet to walk with
But my own.
I have to be this one right here,
With the feet and the skin
So I may walk down the streets of my own
Small mind
And live in this average and mediocrity
That we all brew in.
And why is there nothing wrong with this?
Why can I not find something wrong
With this picture
Of an average girl,
Shifting in her restless mind,
With a million paths to sift through.
Why isn't there some glaring error?
Some hopeless fatality?
Why is it alright?
It is like watching a foreign film
Without subtitles.
I am lost
And my eyes are wandering.
I had a strange dream
Where he was tickling me.
What does it mean,
To be tickled in one's dream?
Also,
Who knew there was a band called
"Someone Still Love You Boris Yeltsin"?
You do now.
Goodnight
And
Adieu.
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