When I wither and when I bloom

Sometimes (quite often, even) I wonder if I’m really cut out for ordinary life?

I can walk, speak, choose, and so on. But inside I’m still waiting to hear the question: "To whom do you belong?" And I wait so I can answer aloud: "To you, Master. Always".

It’s not romanticism. It’s not fantasy. It’s the ontology of my soul. When I try to be equal – I wither. When I let myself be led - I bloom. And even if sometimes I think I’d prefer it to be different (because, let’s be honest, it would be much simpler in many ways), I can’t change it in any way. Those are the facts.