Too many of us are so quick, so quick to judge. That some kind of lives are a certain blessing, others a certain misery. And dare not the blessed feel sorry of themselves, dare not they complain, dare not they feel envy.

From the cries of the poor souls whose sufferings so obvious it makes us cringe to the secretly grim hearts of the ladies and gentlemen lonely in their cold, spacious houses, all we know is just that each of us are just as equally wounded as everyone. We just wound differently, some deep and subtle, some exposed, some clearly seen and some hidden. But noone is free of scars, noone is not pained.

And maybe this is just the curse of life, that all of us, from the ones we long to be to the ones to whom we always feel sorry, we're all sometimes sad, sometimes happy. And while thoughts of grace should never, never leave our minds upon thinking of ourselves, we should be allowed to sometimes accept that we're all wounded. Maybe sometimes, sometimes it's okay to feel sorry for ourselves.

Having spent almost my entire life under the scorching and punishing sun, I thought I'd be forgiven to find your cold shoulder enticing.

I'm summer-bound, you're cold.

Sonder

n. a realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.

The clearest view is always, always from the outer circle, seeing thing as a whole, glasses not tinted, details barely seen and not overbearing.
Like it or not, the inner view is always rose-tinted. Romanticising.
Keep your feet standing on both side of the circle. To see, and moreso, to understand. To be in love and not be blinded. Taking the best of both world.