Sometimes I wonder why the society tends to look at achievement by how many strings of A's one gets. Sometimes I wonder why some people can afford to live in a big mansion yet couldn't carry themselves well in the public. Life's unfairness yet just. It's not how long we live our lives but how we decorate the content of our lives. Life's liken to a book of white pages. We will write and draw and even sketch the different fragments of our lives.
When we're happy, pleased and delighted, we will draw colourful pictures. We will pay attention to the minute details, that even the border of the pages will be decorated and trimmed.
When we're calm, relaxed and reserved, we will write words of encouragement to ourselves. Whatever that comes to the mind will be translated intop words by hands, energized by the core of our heart.
When we're down, upset and challenged, we tend to sketch only part of the facets. We don't even bother to make a picture out of the sketches. After all, not many strangers will come and appreciate the pictures anyway. So, what's life for?
One fact remains : tough people last through thick and thin of the jungles of life.
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