Maybe this is what people called as karma. Pain I feel today perhaps is the result of pain I gave to someone else in the past. I think me in the past is a girl who loves to over judge someone else. I often measured people by their achievements, where they go to study, or something similar. (Well, I did not much care about appearance or wealth, even until now.)
Possibly this is due to the fact that both of my parents do well in academic life. They taught students in university (‘though not any longer these days). I was surrounded by that atmosphere—being around the professors, knowing better the rector in the university, and almost seeing every aspects of the university where my parents dedicate their remaining life to teach sciences. I was so familiar with the campus, the classes, the laboratory, the research they conducted, and the people they worked with.
But now I realize, that is my parents—not me.
Someone who born in a prosperous family, I could not say that the person who just born there and being part of the family will also be rich like his family.
And the same thing happens to this case. If my parents succeed in academic life, that is them—not me.
Yes, but this hurts me. Now that comes the time another people measure me the same way I did—comes the time that I hate myself just because not ever once I want to tell them anything about my life these years. Yes, I was not succeeding any admissions to university. And now, it seems that my achievements, the place I go study, and who I am now, I think… in this moment I suppose that they do not really matter at all. Because I failed them, I have not yet been at the place I really eager to be living. I want to be a doctor—or a psychiatrist. Please, understand me, could you?
However, now I am in the middle. Always be there. Not too close to my dreams—nor too far to it. Not far from blaming myself or to accepting the reality—by forces of my inner self. Always be asking to myself in what way I should tolerate my own thoughts.
I cannot live life like this anymore.
I cannot hide anything. I cannot even bury myself into the hole. I cannot suicide. After a long time struggling with many efforts until I am being here, I cannot just put myself that way. At least, I should thank myself, shouldn’t I?
But my own thoughts seem like they really want to kill me. My own sadness, the loneliness, my past mistakes… they would not let me live peacefully. There always comes question, about who I really am? Who I suppose myself to be—what I want to be?
Do I thank God? Do I thank God for make me live, to give me foods and drinks, to lend me time? Do I?
I really do not understand myself, now.
But, could someday I love me?
# I wrote a note until my throat hurts–maybe this was just my thirst. I wrote a note until cometh my best friends; the ignorance, the denial, the pain. While then the villain, my drowsy conscience, now sings with the city rainfall.
Possibly this is due to the fact that both of my parents do well in academic life. They taught students in university (‘though not any longer these days). I was surrounded by that atmosphere—being around the professors, knowing better the rector in the university, and almost seeing every aspects of the university where my parents dedicate their remaining life to teach sciences. I was so familiar with the campus, the classes, the laboratory, the research they conducted, and the people they worked with.
But now I realize, that is my parents—not me.
Someone who born in a prosperous family, I could not say that the person who just born there and being part of the family will also be rich like his family.
And the same thing happens to this case. If my parents succeed in academic life, that is them—not me.
Yes, but this hurts me. Now that comes the time another people measure me the same way I did—comes the time that I hate myself just because not ever once I want to tell them anything about my life these years. Yes, I was not succeeding any admissions to university. And now, it seems that my achievements, the place I go study, and who I am now, I think… in this moment I suppose that they do not really matter at all. Because I failed them, I have not yet been at the place I really eager to be living. I want to be a doctor—or a psychiatrist. Please, understand me, could you?
However, now I am in the middle. Always be there. Not too close to my dreams—nor too far to it. Not far from blaming myself or to accepting the reality—by forces of my inner self. Always be asking to myself in what way I should tolerate my own thoughts.
I cannot live life like this anymore.
I cannot hide anything. I cannot even bury myself into the hole. I cannot suicide. After a long time struggling with many efforts until I am being here, I cannot just put myself that way. At least, I should thank myself, shouldn’t I?
But my own thoughts seem like they really want to kill me. My own sadness, the loneliness, my past mistakes… they would not let me live peacefully. There always comes question, about who I really am? Who I suppose myself to be—what I want to be?
Do I thank God? Do I thank God for make me live, to give me foods and drinks, to lend me time? Do I?
I really do not understand myself, now.
But, could someday I love me?
# I wrote a note until my throat hurts–maybe this was just my thirst. I wrote a note until cometh my best friends; the ignorance, the denial, the pain. While then the villain, my drowsy conscience, now sings with the city rainfall.
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