Young and Misunderstood

I want a face that bears the scars of experience, I want a voice that lingers in people’s minds after it has stopped vibrating in their ears and I don’t care if they like it. So I roam, never still or in one place for long, in case I can’t move anymore and I’m stuck somewhere I don’t want to be. Sadness is fine sometimes, because looking can be lonely and I’m permanently seeking solitude as the only place I feel at home, away from the judgement of the people who aren’t like me. I fantasise about my own greatness, my triumph over the lies of numbed and thoughtless normality but those dreams create my nightmares and I fear nothing more than having one day to admit that I was wrong, that all this searching was in vain, nothing more an immature escape. My fantasy is not hope and it’s not delusion, it’s just what you have to believe in to keep searching and I do believe it.
The others know nothing and are proud of it. They feel nothing and turn wilful blindness into happiness. They celebrate and aspire to mediocrity, huddle closely together with their backs out and protect their patch of earth as their ultimate safeguard against the uncertainty of world outside of their control. They hear without thinking and believe without question what they see because to them the picture not the word is the ultimate truth. Words are only captions to everything they’re shown about the dangers that continually surround them. They accept this story of threat as long as it ends with a promise that they will be taken care of, protected from that which the cannot see.
They will be protected by the only ones who dare to look out at the real world, who take it upon themselves to be the barrier between the civilised normality and the savage hoards that threaten to overrun it. The noble, selfless ones to be sure, who expect no thanks but tolerate no dissent. It is because of them that you even have the right to speak, so speak carefully.