A morning saturated with moisture all around. The leaves dragged down the ground with the weight of water droplets hanging from their tips.
Isn't that what it feels like to be full of burden? It drags you down to the ground if your will is not strong enough to keep you standing tall. What hope do we, the broken people have?
None I would say. Except for those little things that don't count for most but for us. Our survival depends on them. Our happiness depends on them. So it's the little things that need our attention.
I've seen people growing tall. I've seen them falling to the ground. I've helped build people. I've driven people to the dirt. What kind of person does it make me?
The questions are yet to be answered.
Some people thank me for what I've done for them. And some people hate. It's not really my judgment of my disposition that matters but the net of the outsiders'.
Nobody says it to my face but I know what kind of a pain I am for most of them. Yet they stay with me by my side. Is my desperation that apparent that it triggers their moral judgment to pity me against their self defenses?
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