Desperation is Relative

I am glad that it is over.
I bent it, stretched it, and it broke.
Did not apply the right pressure, obviously.
Am still not believing that I actually did it. Never before have I done such a thing... I am kind of proud actually. Well, it failed. But I feel that I can now do anything, that nothing could scare me.

I have to talk myself up. Because there is this vast inner emptiness in me, which can make me implode, if I do not keep up the pressure.

But today I learned that desperation and misery in life means different things for different people. When going with my friend to school this morning, as classes resumed on Ash Wednesday (yes, finally this horrible Mardi Gras is over), he told me that this past Sunday his father had a brain stroke. One half of his body is paralyzed, he cannot talk, cannot walk. My friend was desperate, but calm. I felt ashamed about my own egotistical whining related to my "great love" and the unjustice that I felt suffering, but my friend's real misery showed me how pathetic my own little problems were. All members of my family are fine, I am healthy, no problems. Just the imagined ones in the mind. Suddenly all of my story did not look that important anymore, as I tried to give him some consolation.

This just demonstrated to me the unfairness of live. I was in a bad mood the whole day. Not because of yesterday, but because of my friend.