A strange stricture exists in having to be someone—a lifeform, at times, no more complex than what can be described in a 35-second elevator ride. If you do indeed stray from the social mandate of remaining loyal to an easily definable identity, you will quickly realize how uncomfortable this makes people.
What, in reality, is the harmless fluidity of your personhood is perceived instead as a disconcerting collection of contradictions and inconsistencies; an unsettled mass others cannot place, cannot tame.
They’ll conclude that they simply do not know what to make of you.
There is, of course, a real sense of hypocrisy in this. So often, those who once declared you a mere misuse of cells are also those who marvel at your paintings.
And quote your lines.
And sing your songs.
Consider this as well: While the collective claims comfort in comprehending its members with ease—with certainty, with permanence—the individual will indelibly delight in moments where they are seldom expected to meet themselves in a fixed state.
A long walk.
Kissing someone for a long while.
These are activities in which one is either in motion or in merger with another—but never forced to arrive at the final destination of their identity.
This is all to say that, much like a child, it is you, the creative kind—anomalous and amorphous—who holds the very unfettered spirit this world is after. Do not cease your becoming.
In truth, we need it so.