The difference to being different?

What is it that drives a man to try and stand out amongst his peers?
That seems to be the flavour of this week. I don't know why, all of a sudden I have had a deluge of people this week who were trying so hard to stand out that they almost fell over. And the funniest part is that almost all of them are so plain run-of-the-mill that it isn't even funny. Maybe that is the point. If you are really a stand-out person then you don't have to try to stand out! But returning to why.
Why this urge to be different that makes people, normal ones like you and me (????), to make a mess of their lives, their health, their relationships and whatever else that may matter. I mean, if you have to believe Darwin then the wilderbeast that conform to the herd have the greatest chance of surviving as against the 'hero' who decides to stand apart. If I were to apply that logic to humans I would be making the generalization that humans are a herding people. But we are, aren't we?
So then why do we want to stand out of this herd? Why are we so upset when life gets boring and monotonous? Why does the mundane always draw groans and sighs? Why do we want to find a meaning to living? Why do we have to think that there is a greater purpose to life than the crass one of just being? Why?
Any answers?

To write is to right!

No dramatic opening lines. No interesting topics to write of. Nothing! No! not even nothing or emptiness or a sickening hollow that I may turn into words. No! only the absence of anything, the absence even of 'nothing.' That is what today has me bothered.

I have always thought a world of my abilities to write. What was it that I used to say to the ladies - "my words will always be magic!" was it? And today? Today I fork out the lantern hidden in my satchel and try to light the fire that burnt out in it long ago for the sole purpose that I may set forth along some path in search of those elusive words of mine. But is that the answer? Or is it even the right question?

Its just not my words that have lost the magic, you see. Its all words that seem to have lost their magic to me. Earlier I'd read a piece of prose/poetry and I'd have images dancing in front of my eyes, would have thoughts running through them neurons of mine at such speeds that if I started writing I would stop only for the lack of paper or because an overzealous friend wanted to have a consultation. But today I read a piece, thought-provoking or otherwise, a beautiful play of words, of inflections and tones and of images and emotions and what do I feel? Nothing! (again that absence of even nothingness that I was talking about.)

Why has this happened I question. An earlier me would have gone up to roof (I dont even know what the roof of my apartment looks like and I have been living here for 6 months now) and raged against the heavens and the sky and the elements until I had the answer. I would have gone on silently or screaming or both until I had the answer. But now? Now I dont even know how the roof looks. Why? I ask this question to a placid computer screen and I expect a response. Brilliant!!

I dont even remember how I found inspiration those days. I mean, I never had to look. That lantern in the satchel burnt bright but never needed to be used. And today I need it and it has died out. I didnt write ever for others' sake, I know that for sure. And often I didnt write for myself. Seldom I wrote for writing's self itself but most often I just wrote. No hows, No whys, No whats and certainly no ifs. Then what changed? What went wrong? When did I start traversing the path to today?

I thought maybe I was trying too hard to find the answers. Maybe all I needed was to walk away from it for a while and I would be able to do it again. But it didnt help. I walked away but I failed to reach anywhere.

And suddenly, voila! As I violently strike the keys on the keyboard it strikes me - that maybe I didnt walk away at all. Maybe I have been writing in my head all the time but have been rejecting my words everytime. Maybe what really is happening that while in the past I wrote I didnt judge, I wrote but didnt criticise while today I judge what I write, I criticise and I then again search for the very words that I have just rejected.

The roof it needs my presence today I suddenly am aware, not to rant against the elements but to rant against my ownself. Oh world please pity me for I have started to write, not for myself, but for you!