And yet, if you’d chose to call my life commonplace and blasé, you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s interesting, this life of mine. Every experience of that belongs to me either finds excessive flattery, admirable complaints, a happy distortion or a careful polishing for affectionate preservation. As memories, as thoughts, or sometimes, as words. It is maybe because I want them to endure. Much after their times, much after their end, much after me. Because their worth grows with me, with every single day….
I’ve been blessed to be here. And yet, I have not found causes to question as to why I’m deserving of a doting mother, a perfect father, so much love and care. I have never asked why is it that my every whim and fancy should be satisfied, the tantrums attended to, the ignorance that I carelessly throw their way allowed for. It’s so easy to not ask weird questions. Hell, I’m no philosopher. I don’t talk dense with my family. But 20, I guess, knocked a little substance into a very fortunate pea brain.
Because cancers can go away and you'll heal.