who the fuck is weird?

 am not a weirdo…

But they are weirdos to spaciousness, to dreaming, to dialogue.

They are weirdos to listening they want you to listen, to nod at their embalmed thoughts.

Weirdos to listening… to accepting that another may see the sun from a window other than theirs.

And the more I try to be myself,
the more they surround me with walls of illusion,
until I suffocate between the bricks of their opinions.

…And I wonder:

Is the weirdo the one who differs,
or the one who fears difference?

As for me?

They look at me as a child looks at a book without pictures.
They run their fingers over my letters without reading them.

They want me to be a repeated copy of their faces,
to echo their words,
to laugh when they laugh,
and to hate what they hate, even if it is beautiful in my eyes.

But I belong to no one.
My thoughts were not born to live in the cages of their tongues.
My soul was not created to feed on the crumbs of their convictions.

…If they see me as a weirdo,
so be it.

The weirdo, in my eyes,
is the one who extinguishes the light so he will not see it.
The one who breaks the mirror if it does not flatter him.
The one who locks the door on himself and boasts that he sees the world.

And I will keep seeing,
and writing,
and dreaming,
even if the world around me is a vast prison.

Because the true prison… is to live like them.