That is why i was mentioning the will to compete in my first post. Most people see themselves only through other peoples' eyes - one can not tell right from wrong, if there is no one to define it, etc.
I dislike people in general, but being only human, i still enjoy others' attention, my pride needs to be fed, and I am subjected to, mostly retarded, codes of conduct. I am too weak to break these chains, but I do not wish to be completely enslaved by them, and so when being alone, and taking personal decisions regarding my life, when i harm no other people, I try to choose what i want, rather than choosing what is right.
Not sure if it makes much sense, but hopefully you can see the direction in which i am going here.
That is why i choose heroine-goo for myself - free from opinions, morality, having no need to justify myself and such 
The third time Moenghus matched his gaze, Cnaüir did not reach for his stick. Instead he asked: “Why? Why do you provoke me?”
“Because you, Cnaüir urs Skiotha, are more than your kinsmen. Because you alone can understand what I’ve to say.” You alone.
More capturing words. What young man does not chafe in the shadow of his elders? What young man does not harbor secret resentments, pompous hopes?
“Speak.”
Moenghus spoke about many things over the months that followed, about how Men slumbered, about how the Logos, the way of intellect, was the only thing that could awaken them. But all of it was a blur to Cnaüir now. Of all their secret transactions, he remembered only the first with any clarity. But then inaugural sins always burned the brightest. Like beacons.
“When the warriors raid the Empire across the mountains,” Moenghus said, “they always use the same trails, do they not?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“But why?”
Cnaüir shrugged. “Because the trails are mountain passes. There’s no other way to cross into the Empire.”
“And when the warriors gather to raid their neighbors’ pastures, they always use the same trails, do they not?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they ride across open ground. The ways of crossing the Steppe are without number.”
“Exactly!” Moenghus exclaimed. “And is not every task like a journey? Every accomplishment a destination? Every hunger a point of departure?”
“I suppose... The memorialists say as much.”
“Then the memorialists are wise.”
“Make your point, slave.”
Laughter, flawless in its coarse Scylvendi cadences — the laugh of a great warrior. Even then Moenghus had known what poses to strike. “Do you see? You grow impatient because you think the path I take too convoluted. Even words are like journeys!”
“So?”
“So if all things men do are journeys, I ask you, why are the ways of the Scylvendi, the customs that bind what men do, like mountain passes? Why do they ride the same trails, over and over again, when the ways to their destination are without number?”
“Where no paths exist,” Moenghus had continued, “a man strays only when he misses his destination. There is no crime, no transgression, no sin save foolishness or incompetence, and no obscenity save the tyranny of custom. But you already know this... You stand apart from your tribe.”
He alone was awake. Where others filed through illusory canyons, his soul ranged the trackless plains.
“What comes before determines what comes after,” Kellhus continued. “For the Dünyain, there’s no higher principle.”
“And just what comes before?” Cnaüir asked, trying to force a sneer.
“For Men? History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.”
Shallow breath. A face freighted by unwanted insights. “And when the strings are seen...”
“They may be seized.”
