I've been an outsider most of my life. I always felt I didn't fit in with the crowd. I've made peace with the fact that I often have to go at it alone. Its not an easy way I admit, but that's just me.
I've also been the restless kind. Maybe its because I've never been good with the "what you're supposed to do" idea as with most people ("you're supposed to be like the rest, get married, get a good job, be rich and successful, etc, etc, and so forth"). I suppose I'm looking for my own little niche somewhere. I'm glad though that there are also other restless guys out there like me.
One such guy is the American poet and writer Robert W. Service. He felt he didn't fit in too and wrote some good words about guys like us.
To the "restless" and "outsiders". . .
The Men That Don't Fit In
by Robert Service
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
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