I know I’m far from perfect,
That’s why my memories are embarrassments.
I’m far from the ordinary, I’m not the world’s perfect image,
But I’m me.
Isn’t that all we can ask for?
I don’t wish to look like a movie star,
Nor do I wish to sound like an artist.
But if that’s so, they why do I recall dreadful events?
Why did I say that? Why did I do that?
I keep asking myself: what’s wrong with me?