What is it that makes something wrong?
Simply because it is not right.
But what makes something right? And if I am not right, then surely I am wrong.
I know some people would think I am wrong.
But how can it be so? There is no reason that I can find. And though I know most people say it is not wrong, if they knew they would see me differently, wouldn't they?
Instead of these shadows I clothe myself in, I could wear a cloak of brilliant colour, and of vivid white truths. I need not wear this mask, hot and tight against my skin, now I can breathe, and now I can speak!
But I am afraid.
In being human, I become frightened that maybe I am wrong.
I hide myself in the velvety darkness once more, glimpses of brightness residing on my skin. In my eyes it dances, silent and feverish.
Oh, these lies I live!