Our lives cross with certain people, and it's for the better of us. No one desires to live a life in absence of a friend or a companion. We all want one. Actually, we all need one. And then many things happen. Some things good and some things bad. Who in this world didn't have ups and downs?
We all have wounds and scars that remind us of the battle that we have fought. No one's ship has sailed smoothly forever. Storms are difficult for everyone. All of us have personal stories and events that have changed us to a person that we are today.
But when something goes wrong, why is that we always find a problem with the other one? It doesn't rule out the fact that other person has no fault in it, but it is important that we realize that we too are at fault, and it is better that we realize it soon. Or is it safer that we shred it off our hands, and blame it all on someone else?
Our whole story revolves on our supposition that the other person is wrong. It's stuck in our mind, and our decisions are based on that fact too. Yes, agreed, it's our personal life. We can decide anything, but we should be considerate of someone else's feelings too.
What outcome would we get when we blame someone else for everything? Number one; we might lose a person forever, but who fucking cares? All we do care is about the euphoric feeling that we're safe. We are off the story. We are off the limelight. But never ever it comes to our mind that what could happen to the other person that we're blaming.
Do we even once realize that what blunders have we done in the part of the story? Or is this an assumption that our sins are gonna wash away automatically? Infact, no one cares about the other person. We happen to move forward in a world where being selfish is the pre-requisite of survival. It is true in some aspects, but not all of them.
The things we need in our lives are drastically changing where our demands come first and foremost even if we have to pay the cost of someone else's happiness too.
I couldn't help but wonder: have been become living machines?
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Stories from A Troubled Boy
Документальная проза..and I was different. "He is weird," said my seniors, tone redolent with mockery. And nicknames began. I have now lost count of the names. There are many, and it reached my home. My single mother was worried about who I was going to be. Though...
