Now that I'm growing past this, growing up but refusing to become grey, I find I have to concentrate to tap into the old current. That old angst. And when I use it it... It seems forced to me. It's meaningful to others. It's nothing to myself.
I'm just not that person anymore. I'm not that... simperingly sweet person that everyone used to know.
Am I proud or ashamed? I am proud. I am not angry. I am not snatching back towards a life that I know is better left behind. I am muffled. I am shapeless. I have become limitless. I am liberated by impulsive moodswings. I do not contribute them to another cause of my misery. I am not these people. I am not extreme in the way they want me to be. I am content. As such I have no place in the art of ravaged and irritable souls.
I have no right to encourage pain. I love all I am. I have no right to think badly of myself. People are dying out there for christs sake. I have no right to adopt their attention.
I am no longer different except in the sense that I am the same in a time when it is thought more appealing to be not so.
My last act, my last attention seeking gesture is to show you. I have to allow you to see that I am changing, I am smiling. The tables turn, I am now plain to you, invigorating and intriguing to myself... And this makes me content.
This is everything.
This is the way it is supposed to be.