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.