They say I seem old,
But I am alive in my decrepitude,
And they are dead in their puberty.
They criticize me for being boring,
But my inactivity is creative,
And their actions are sterile.
They censure me for being close-minded,
But there is understanding in my dungeon,
And there is ignorance in their courtyard.
They brand me as a stubborn slave to my purposes,
But there is freedom in chains,
And they host routine in their liberties.
They say there is a second life,
Limited by foolish hopelessness,
Because they are corpses in the first.
Both our criticisms are equally hurtful,
But theirs are temporary,
And mine are eternal.
While they enjoy the reality of pleasure,
I relish the pleasure of reality.
While they favor equality,
I praise differentiation.
They criticize my rational madness
And I perceive the futility of their common sense.
There is a dividing line between them and me.
No matter how hard I try,
I cannot be like them:
That is my sadness.
No matter how hard they try,
They cannot be like me:
That is my joy.