it's a bad day when you start categorizing the happiness of others as compared to your own.
really, why is everyone else living the life you always dreamed of? and why won't they give it back?
you start to think - why do fat and brilliant drug addicts get that happiness? why do they get to raise children with big smiles and strange names? why do people in three piece suits get it? why do people who just throw it away get it? why do parents take it from their children and run? when did we get so bad at sharing love?
how can we all stand underneath the same blue sky and not try to snatch it all for ourselves? we're afforded so little in our lives that's truly ours, which makes gratitude feel like an overwhelming task. we'll never be someone's reason for living, never be loved enough to balance the account of all our pain. we've buried that part of us that resonates on the frequency of others and makes everyone's stories form something monumental - a monument to a group of people who are more than the sum of their stories.
if we dug for ourselves long enough, the power of what we'd find would threaten to overwhelm every lie we told ourselves about the small, petty nature of our lives. it's so much harder to be a bright, transcendent star than an earthbound one. so i suppose i'll learn to live, ceding my patch of sky to someone else's dreams. it's just easier that way.