Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Just that I Feel Like Writing

I feel bad for the people who didn't even get the chance to see the sun, had no chance to hear their loved once tell them that they loved them, and did not get to say what they wanted to say. I regret to know that some people have not tried to lift a pencil on paper, walk the streets in broad daylight, or able to feel a pinch on their skin, as the rain crashes down on them. I got the feeling that I should help them— people with disabilities, physical or mental. But I could not let the blind see. I could not let the deaf hear or let the mute speak. I could not let the lame walk or the armless people write or cook with hands. I can't perform miracles or cure schizophrenia and bipolarity. I can't get rid of any sickness with just am exhale of breathe. Instead of writing this, I could have researched for things that would have made all of these possible. Rather than doing that, I am wallowing in self-pity, helplessly thinking of helpless people, hoping that one day, someone with a hopeful heart would somehow do something for these people, rather than doing what I am doing now, which is making myself and some other people feel bad.

But I could be that someone, right?

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