vanilla pops and banana skies

Sunday, July 16, 2006

1:15 PM

I am like an egg.

I think I'm like an egg. Hard on the outside, so that if I stand tall, puff my chest out and stick my chin high, worries and sorrows would just seemingly bounce off my tummy to the other end of the universe.

But shells are porous.

Do you think people take the happy for granted? When someone radiates cheerful waves throughout the day, people often get the impression that she has no troubles; her journey in life has always been smooth. Then they snap and her and say, you don't understand, you probably haven't been through anything like what I'm going through before. And they just want to wipe that annoying, perpetual smile off her face. You blissful idiot.

Then, won't happy people be hurt three times as much? Once for the sorrows everyone shares, twice for having to convince themselves to be happy, and thrice for being accused for being happy. Once, twice, three times over.

It must be easy to be sad, then, you must think.

The egg is soft, liquid, gooey and all confused inside. It's partly a bird, a mind, partly nutrients and food, partly just plain water. Whether it's cold or warm outside, it's just a matter of what is compromised. Whether the mind lives, or dies.

There's a lot it wants to say, but never dared to. It's a treasure chest without a lock or a key; unless you break it, it will never in its life let you in.

But in the end, maybe I'm not so much of an egg.

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