I don’t know if to be born in this world is a blessing or a curse. Oftentimes I find myself asking if I should be thankful I was given life. Here I am lying in my soft bed, sheltered in a strong house, protected from the cruel tempest outside, got wonderful friends, and a very understanding, loving, and supportive mother. Yet despite all these I always come to the point of concluding there’s really nothing that I should be thankful of.
How can I be comfortable lying in my bed when I know there are lots of people who are suffering outside, trying to ease themselves lying in a cold cement; people who could hardly able to sleep tonight from the savage storm? How could I? How can I? How can I claim life is beautiful even though I am surrounded by colorful flowers, hearing lovely music, reading philosophical novels, watching immortal work of arts, and a lot more, when at the back of my mind all these things are only a part and parcel of reality. For whenever I go down from the clouds and am with people, acquaint myself with the common masses; I see wider reality – a grotesque reality. How can I laugh when I always hear people’s cry?
Am I just too demanding? A perfectionist that is never satisfied with what I have? A hopeless ambitious who wanted to travel the world in search for magnificent views, yet fails to appreciate the things around me? Or perhaps a lost soul in the universe, finding meaning in nothingness? Or an idealist who wanted to promote peace, yet in constant war with my own self? I don’t know! I don’t know….
