The intimidation of the world confronts me with many questions: Should I say what I want to say? Should I go about the world being who I want to be, or conform to the idealistic principles that the world has to offer? Should I be an author that fully expresses my thoughts, may they be controversial, or should I write about what the world wants to hear: sex, money, and fame? The questions rise into a galactic amount that, as a burden, crushes my shoulders as I walk around omitting everything I say, everything that I think. When people look at me, what do they see? Do they see another person like them? Do they see themselves? When people look at me, I want them to see something unique, something different. I don't want them to see a clone. I want them to see someone who doesn't let conformity run their life.
But when will I learn to not let that happen to me? In the middle of the dry, bitter lands where the intimidating world stores its questions that baffle my unstable mind, there is one question that longs to escape and be free; a question that I hold dear to me, a question that ultimately locks the chains that incarcerate the enormous amount of oppressive questions in my head: will I be different?