There are many times
I disapprove of other's actions
Not that I dislike it,
But sometimes
Because I cannot afford to be like them

I am not a saint
When I see others happy
And the pool of sadness swirling in my heart
I feel what people call envy

I cannot be happy in other's happiness
I may be sad when you are sad
But expecting me to find happiness in yours
Happiness is like asking a beggar
To be happy seeing the king's riches

And that is what makes me a human

When did I start taking things for granted?
When did just barely doing anything
become like perfectionism to me?

When did I start taking people for granted?
When did hardly putting any efforts
become all the efforts that would define me?

It all started
when I started living in the world
my mind made for me,
rather than the real world
I should live in.

The worst thing about being an adult is not the bills that you pay on your own.
It's not the messes which you left behind to clean on your own.
Nor is it the dishes that you left in the sink you come back and clean on your own.
What hurts the most about being an adult is-
You are solely responsible for your situations,
For your problems,
And for all the mistakes you make.
You cannot shift the accountability no matter how hard you try.
It's like a direct tax.
It's like the burden cannot be shifted to others.

In the morning, I saw the sun shining brightly, as if cheering for me.
I thought today would be the day to make a difference.
I would do all the things I wanted to do.
I would be a new version of myself—the one I always wanted to be.

While thinking about all of it, I noticed the sun was gone,
and there was the moon, consoling me for my loss, lulling me to sleep.
So I slept.

And again, the next morning became my next today,
with the sun coming up again

One day when I wake up, the world won’t be the same.
The people will be different.
They will treat me differently,
their reasons for doing so will be different.
But I will be the same person,
who will see them as different
but treat them the same.

When they are actually dead—
The body no longer in control of soul,
Under the ground, mixing with the life there.

Or when the soul is no longer in control of body?
Like a dictionary with no meaning to be found in it.

For me, I think the latter is what’s worse:
When I can no longer feel anything, just like the unliving,
And just live for the sake of living,
Like drinking water without thirst.
No longer caring about anything—
Be it myself or others.
A journey with no destination.

When I see the clock
But don’t feel the urgency of time passing,
Yet feel good that another day has passed—
That’s worse.

Breathing just for living,
And not to be alive, is worse.

But the worst of them all
Is watching people around me play their characters,
And feeling out of character
In my own book.