07/31/2011

Isn’t it strange how the world just keeps moving? It moves through the good times and the bad, and it shifts swiftly from slow to fast without regard to who is here and who was there, only to trace individual growth through the lingering memories that have been imprinted on its rough exterior.

But it’s interesting though because from a distance, life from the other end is always filled with adoration and desire: a smooth, insatiable idealistic vision of the world we crave. Yet, the prospective future isn’t what it seems, and those ideals are often fraught with the crushing resentment of reality.

This is my life. The world I live in. The world I belong to. But what I desire isn’t quite so simple.

No, in fact, what I desire is something I once had but lost ages ago. The feeling… the ability in itself to feel happiness–a sense of contentment about what I once enjoyment in life.

When did I stop feeling good about my life and the things I once derived happiness from? What happened to art, reading, writing… Most of all, what happened to the ability to express love?

It’s been so long, and these days I find myself so tired but somehow I still manage to get out of bed. I step outside into the open world and feel warmth of sunlight, and it reminds me that my life, though it may not have much worth, is at least still precious to me.