Relativity

Some call it selfish,
say it’s reckless, or worse,
but this is no trend, no fleeting whim.
This is how I survive,
how I’ve chosen to live—
by truths carved sharp, shaped rough,
a framework I built for myself.

I’m learning as I go,
stumbling and scarred,
never claiming perfection, just purpose.
Everything, I say, is relative—
relative to how I see, how you see,
relative to the lines we draw
between what feels true
and what’s simply told to us.

But tell me, what is this world coming to?
Commercials hum like hymns,
screens flicker in gospel light,
pushing us a vision we can’t afford
and don’t need. They sell us a life
that’s never ours to own,
tell us to aspire, to reach and ache,
to feel less for not having it all.

Somewhere in this noise, we’ve lost our own voices,
numbed ourselves to fit the shape
they promised would feel like freedom.
They sold us a mirror, but it’s cracked,
just a shadow of who we were,
silenced, shaped by the weight of other lives.

But I need creation—
my voice, my pulse, my path.
I believe in the right to live by my own code,
a life that respects, that treads light,
but that’s mine all the same.

So yes, I still have dreams—
real ones, rooted and rough-edged,
and I’ll make them mine,
not some glittered fantasy spun to sell.
I’ll live for what’s real,
for what makes me me—
not what the world tries to sell me.