is it masochistical?

the yearning for constraints
i once prided mysef for being rid of,
the desire to be bound by
brash, senseless, irrational logic,
just like any other.

i no longer fear permanence
rather, i crave it:
i no longer regoice in indiference:
it has become a dull knife.

i am not a singular, stray point
i no longer need to tell myself i am.
i am not the lead of the pack
i'd surrender power for fraility.

and that desire,
the desire to welcome flawedness,
is that masochistical?

to cut off my wings
and crash down on earth,
beaten and mortal,
just like any other.