The world we live in just stresses me out sometimes. Should have never read so many fairytales, it ruined my perception of it. Ain't nothing romantic or fair about this shit. Ofcourse I didn't believe in the whole happily ever after thing. But I believed in some level of fairness where a certain portion of suffering led to happiness multiplied by a factor of two at least. Unfortunately that's not the world we live in. It's all a joke really. The rich get richer while the poor idolise them and work their arses off to try and get to that level, to no avail. We are pawns on a chessboard, to be moved hither and thither according to the will of the player. None of this matters. Our legacies will mean nothing when our bodies are putrefying in the ground. But our children will benefit from our efforts you say. Sure they will, until they die. There isn't a point to any of this. We're just here for a bit then we'll leave. But we're not certain when our exit will present itself. So in the meantime we try to make ourselves comfortable. To enjoy ourselves but not too much lest we fall into the trap of sin. We suffer in an effort to secure a better life and after-life. No control, we have no control. All these curve balls thrown at us, filled with addiction and disease, some with unnatural desires. Utter confusion in this bitch.
Like the multitudes of people who do not receive gifts often, I used to believe that I didn’t care about them. That it was not a ‘big deal’ for me. That was until I received a book from my then boyfriend. It was unexpected and perfect. Proof that I lingered in his mind in a significant way. I loved it. To paraphrase Oliver Twist, ‘I would indeed love some more’ of this gift receiving. The joy I felt surprised me. It reinforced a thing that was proving itself to be true again and again in my life. That you can never truly understand something until it happens to you. That true appreciation comes from experience. I started to understand why the girls would go crazy over what seemed like trifles from lovers on Instagram stories. About a year after that, an estranged acquaintance also sent me a book with the sweetest message. I was in a bad way (she didn’t know this) and some force compelled her to show me love at that time. That gesture was the gust of oxygen I needed to emerge from the
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