I’m disillusioned. Relationships. Being shackled to another. All those souls who cling to imitation. Fairytale lives where the key is to be like everyone else. Don’t arouse suspicion, just fit in. Be normal. Be pretty. All those useless, beautiful faces. The sex on display that leaves me numb. Flesh and fertility, doing nothing other than to isolate my dreams and desires even more. My life is fantasy- fantasy, my life. It consists of dreams unchained by the adult world. Art makes me free, nothing else. Don’t tell me that to be successful I need to change who I am. That for me to be somebody, I have to be someone else. I am what I am. This journey I’m on is a strange one. The sacrifices made unpleasant. There’s been boredom, heartbreak and pain. They’ll be plenty more of it too. Lovers are attracted by my looks, but once they see the darkness inside, they flee. They see my obsession, and they know that they’ll always be second best to my words. Second best to me. It’s not true, I loved them all, but my hunger for what I believe in will never diminish. I’ve little to show for it, yet the road is long. This is how I am, and though the years have got behind me, they’ve done nothing to diminish my madness. I’m a joker, a passive watcher of others. I’m polite and kind, a loner who prefers his own company. Greedy and eccentric, a guy with a liking for brunettes, and a penchant for wine. This is how I am. It’s a portrait of a loser, of someone with nothing yet everything. I’m at one with the universe, and most importantly, I’m at one with myself. What’s the point of being like the rest when the rest don’t exist?