I am the same through each day, like a wisdom-less infant, I wander this world with bliss, waltzing through its cruelty and amorality like the wisps of a dandelion. My comedy is others tragedy, and my tragedy is their comedy. I don’t exactly understand what makes something right or wrong in the context of other people, I just have to make a good guess… I’m usually wrong. As I rest with my teddy and gaze into that cold indifferent ceiling, I often wonder how life is for others. How it is to simply walk into a supermarket, grab the things you need, and leave, without the need to discover much. While I meditate on those things, a reminder shoots back into my head: the fact that I cannot change, no matter how hard I try. I can’t force myself to think, speak, or act a certain way. I’m just a bean, a foolish bean. Then I think to myself: “Why am I imprisoned in this folly? Why must I be the village’s personal idiot, with no relief?”. I guess we all serve a purpose under our Gods, but I don’t know what mine is, or what it would want with me. I’m the only one who knows myself, so that is why I can only serve myself well, but that must go against some law out there. I abide by no ones desire.