Sometimes I feel like I’ve been born in the wrong place and in the wrong time. I think I should have belonged in some place in America at the time Literature is ripe. Or in the posh European provinces where Bronte sisters had lived. I would like to believe that I am such an old soul.
I don’t know if I just say these things because I was influenced by those books I have read and the movies I’ve seen or the songs I have heard. But I’m guessing I’m just a sentimental fool who likes to relate things in life to everything I would like to have and like to believe in. I guess all I’m saying is that I want to be genius that way, like those heroes on the favorite books I had.
And whenever I think all of these, I also think that I’m trying to make an alternative world where everything is perfect…for me. I don’t feel like I belong here so I’m always making a life that I could connect to inside my wrapped and complicated mind.
If I get psychological about this, I guess I could say I am least contented with the life given to me. Which leads me to my religious beliefs: God gives you what you supposed to have; God has plans for you, trust Him, He’ll not make the wrong things for you or something like that.
Sometimes I ask what’s the essence of being here. You know, living, breathing, suffering, being happy, being successful, being a loser: It doesn’t make sense to me. We will all die right? So what’s special between the beginning and the end? Where will all the lessons we learned be taken into.
Am I making sense or being cynical or what?
I just want to write and feel the greatness you could feel after you let your feelings flow through your fingertips. Now I could read them like I am an outsider.
But I am not unintelligent or what. I know the sense of being born this way. I just like to ask and ponder and to torture myself even more.
But enough of it.