This man

You were not born a Prince.

You don’t live with a bow tie and a tuxedo.

You are rugged to say the least.

And you’re not as skillful as that of F1 hunk.

You are neither Richard Gere nor Mel Gibson.

What do you even have? ¬†Not a Mercedes Benz or a sport’s car. Not a sedan if I may haggle.

You don’t even have a permanent address!

You’re nothing but a princely pauper of a land far off.

With nothing but a clean t-shirt, a messy bun and cool airwaves.

Yes, you are rugged. But you feel more human far better than the Prince in books and in Wales.

You’re an artist. You paint emotions with the music you sing and play enough to drag them all envious of your talent. More than enough to flinch their egos.

Of course. Richard and Mel are legends but you are you. Unique in your own time and presence.

The guitar that almost get lost in the airport, the laptop where you keep your intelligible files and  favourite movies and the black cap you wear in your exquisite travels?

Oh sure they don’t equal the cars that the noveau riche have acquired. Who are they to compete? Or to brag? When yours are far removed from the world’s superficiality? Real and original.

The address shouldn’t be an issue if that is such a huge cry for stability.

Because you live by your own rules. You follow your own drumbeat. You are an epitome far greater than the echelons in a society built by social make ups. Castles and mansions don’t impress you much enough to make you want to live there.

Where you stay is where your heart is.