I sang hesitantly,
Because my voice would never be the most melodious.
I wrote not enough,
Because my views would never be awarded with universal acceptance.
I wore not the best clothes,
Because I felt not beautiful enough for them.
I voiced not my opinions enough,
Because I’m no Martin Luther King.
I read not as much as I wanted,
Because no matter how much I do, I can never claim to be the most knowledgeable.
I lived a hypocritic life,
Because my ideals and morals are too high for me to reach.
I criticized, I judged all within my head,
Because idealism had pervaded every living cell in my being.
I abhorred myself,
Because I would always fall short of being perfect.
“Be extraordinary! Live the life!”, they said,
Little did I know that I didn’t have to be perfect to be extraordinary.
Romanticist ideas chased this self-revelation,
They echoed wild in my head and absorbed me,
“Run out of the ghettos of the world,
Follow your passion,
Care not about what others think,
Be not afraid and do the things you love,
And explore the world.”
So I began to dream.
I woke up, startled by the pandemonium of universal romanticism,
Everyone quoted the same maxims,
Everyone had similar passions to follow,
Everyone wanted to be benevolent and help the poor,
Everyone dreamed to go on a world tour,
Everyone wished to devour the best cuisines,
Everyone loved the college-dropout stories,
Everyone seemed crippled to do the things they ought to,
Wanted to be the same extraordinary.