Your poem reminds me that at some point in childhood there is a resolve to find the answers to things that are bothering us.
Later in life, searching for the answers gets kind of exhausting. That's when it begins to become a little clearer that the searching can hide a deeper pain and emptiness.
Being even can be scary. As safe it may seem, a perfectly ordered existence is somehow mystifying in its regularity.
Perhaps within our oddness is our true self, hungering for recognition by an even world, yet finding peace in living without it.
Lose the drama; life is a poem.