rip out the wings of a butterfly

You know, I used to be original.  Creative, even.  I used to be different.  Now the world is overflowing with cocky, sanctimonious megalomaniacs.  And I see these children, just turned 14, in their black nail polish and baggy pants, writing their deep poetry and spiritual thoughts and I just kind of chuckle.  This too shall pass.

But I won’t even get my originality back.  It’s not fair to grow up.  When I retired the platform boots and the black nail polish in favour of dressing more "normally", I told myself I was growing up.  And when I stopped writing the poetry and the angry rants, I told myself I was growing up.  And when I slowly learned the art of apathy and acting, I told myself I was growing up.  And when I lost everything that made me human, I knew I was finished.

Any goth or punk that reads this might very well scoff.  How lame of me to conform to society’s standards.  I should go out and rebel and wear more black and eyeshadow.  I should listen to louder music and get a lot more drunk a lot more often.  I should be loud and rude.  I should disrepect authority.  But I see no reason to.  My days of being different are gone, those past with childhood.  Normalcy will be my cross, and someday I will be crucified on it.

Isn’t that how it always goes?