As I pore over the 900+ entry from the weblog I am following, I couldn’t help but to cuss to myself. “Is that all?” Envy still grabs my by the throat tightly but at same time, I remain in awe. This juxtaposition of emotions should produce something sensible, I hope. I checked again and found a poetry piece that I could only dream of writing.
I hate not the blogger, but myself even more.
I can never get enough of self-loathing. No doubt, I had this desire to receive compliments, not just a mere a pat in my back for a job well done. I wanted something more. I crave for something much more than the appreciation of friends because they are friends. Though not in my own definition of friends, they are still, friends. They are bound to give positive criticism.
I’ve lost count the times I dream of being in the shoes of someone born from a parents whose net worth has more than eight zeros. No, it is not the wealth that I crave for; the endless opportunities set for the privileged is what I covet – the chance to step into another land, the quality of education within reach and all sorts of pocket crushing experiences the impoverished could only dream of.
Believe me, I don’t live for the wealth. I live for life itself.
I have read about celebrities and their lifestyle and I didn’t care about it that much. Then, I found this blog. For some unknown reason (Unknown..pffft. I guess I still don’t consider being a great writer and the idea of seeing him in real life as a reason), I was drawn.
I hated his woes. (I mean, there are greater problems in this world.) I envied his feats. (Ugh, the perks of being born rich!) I coveted his skills. I wanted to so much to be part of that world, perhaps, to be able to think alike, or write alike.
I have my own writing style but I think it is no good. I have my own thoughts but I think they are senseless. I am yearning to be so much more. In the end, I couldn’t help but to ask myself: