From time to time, we get demoralized by people who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth—probably the same spoon they now use to stir their gourmet coffee while we struggle with instant. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have achieved great heights without doing much. You know the type. They yawn and succeed. We sweat and fail. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have lots of capabilities but are left in the dust. Talented, brilliant, hardworking—and somehow still eating dust while others eat cake. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have lots of love but are betrayed by the same love. They give their heart, and someone uses it as a doormat.
Everything is unequal. George Orwell's Animal Farm rightly says, "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others." In other words, the pigs get the good beds. We get the straw. And no one even asks if we're comfortable.
Anyway, life is not all about comparison. At least, that's what I tell myself while secretly comparing. But honestly, I am not so obsessed. I look for a place or path where I can have enough space to stay or walk on. That's it. A plate of rice is enough for me. Maybe with an egg on a good day. And if someone throws in a pickle, I call it a feast.
Life will change, I thought when I was a boy. I was so innocent. As I realize now, life doesn't change—it just keeps changing its mind. And it's only the beginning of overcoming trials and tribulations. The beginning, mind you. Not the middle. Not the end. Just the first of many, many rounds.
I cared so very much about the fruits, not about how a tree is nurtured and taken care of. Classic mistake. When I jumped to get fruits from an un-nurtured tree, the fruits were dreadfully small. Like, embarrassingly small. The kind of fruit that makes other fruits laugh.
Life is trying and trying and even more trying—not axing the dreams. It's trying. I have tried to do many things in my life, but most of them failed. Again and again. I tried to work hard to reach the target I had thought, but my work hung in the vacuum of nowhere. Hardly anyone recognized my toils. Or maybe they did and just didn't care. Or maybe it was an unreachable fate. Whatever it was, it didn't come with a manual.
I tried to write. It faltered devastatingly. Some sentences still lie on the floor, unfinished and ashamed. But I am ever trying. I was hurt, but I move on. The bad parts shape me into a better person—like a rock being carved by a very slow, very patient, slightly drunk sculptor. I tried liking my job, but others didn't like the way I worked. Without knowing anything, it was also fagging—a fancy word for exhausting labor with no applause. I tried to fulfill my parents' expectations, but that kept putting me off to the future. Honestly, they were supposed to fulfill my expectations. I think we got the roles reversed somewhere. I tried to mask happiness, but the internal force was more powerful. I am a victim of my own face. It betrays me constantly. I tried very many alternatives to bring my life to my satisfaction, but every trying is as useless as not trying at all. The more I try, the more worries I have that anguish my problems further. The more problems I encounter, the more solutions I try to find. But the solutions are far hidden behind the mountains. Probably behind the same mountains where my missing socks go.
God forbid me not from not trying. (Yes, read that twice. That's how confused I am.) I will keep on trying. I say this because when everything fails, in the end, one hope keeps me kicking: knowing that I have my family to embrace me and show me that there is still love around me. So I will keep on trying. I am not an escapee. I can't give up easily.
BUT... what can I try now? Good question. If you have answers, please send them by pigeon. Or email. Or just shout.
Anyway, hope keeps waking up. Even when I want to sleep in, hope shows up with a loud alarm and a cheerful smile. Annoying, but useful. And this story keeps me believing there is something in life—an artificially-kind-of-real that we need to display to live our lives forth. Here is the story:
A man bought twelve flowers: eleven real and one fake. He said, "I will love you until the last flower dies." And this is the irony of life: to fake and live, or to live and fake. Either way, the fake flower never dies. So technically, he loves forever. But also technically, he cheated. And that, my friend, is life in a nutshell: beautiful, flawed, and slightly dishonest.
