Being high and introspective, I thought up this
No wonder everyone always calls me weird. I live like my heroes, but my heroes are no one else's heroes. I look up to the great writers, your Baudelaires, your Kerouacs, your Rimbauds, your Thoreaus, figures recognized as heroes among a small group of people - your hipsters, your English students, your rebels, your ironists, your perverts, your bloodsuckers, your writers, your martyrs for art, your fringe-dwellers. These types society snubs as pretentious, weird, with their thoughts ruminating on the minds and hearts of everyday people, creating new plots for their lives, or imagining their real world sorrows in their lives, romanticizing their forgotten kisses, their teary eyes, their warm sighs. But these folks, these people, dreams in hand, are described as having their heads in the clouds and other trite cliches about the real world. They don't know the supreme satisfaction in the more rugged and less-trod path, the one littered with scraps of paint, puddles of blood and ink kissing covered in coffee and booze soaked papers, the one path partially blocked by piles of broken lyres. No, they choose comfort, and they choose convention. And what do we choose? Our own possibilities.