I’m a poet, an artist, a rebel I’m a child too grown up, a teenager too childish. And by the end of the day, I’m a big nobody, just another word in my poem, another drop of paint on another unfinished canvas of mine, another question where silence won’t work as an answer. There’s something comforting about this kind of silence, the silence where I can call myself a nobody and still exist, the silence after taking a deep breath and a good look at myself: I’m a poet, an artist, a rebel, a nobody capable of being anybody. So why worry about the fabric of time when I can redesign it as I like? I’m a poet, an artist, a rebel. I need to create to stay alive, so why not rewrite the world, erase the wars? Maybe redraw the history of people with tanks and armies, and paint them with smiles on their faces, with no hatred in their hearts and fear in their eyes. If I’m capable of doing so, I would. I’d let my pen dance across the paper, I’d paint with bright colours and keep asking questions no one wants to answer, because I’m a poet, an artist, a rebel.