it's a funny thing because like some things in life follow a really funny trajectory.

it's like a flu;

when the first wave hits you,

it's like BAMWHAMBAM and then you're spawled on the floor,

sniffing, mucus all over, can't breathe, can't smell, can't eat anything [properly]

and you just feel miserable and you think you just might/want to die and everything.

and then like before you know it

you're all better already[or so you think]

and you can focus on eating and smelling and breathing

and you don't use as much tissue as before and you're okay

and you can feel you're alive and you're doing other things like normal,

but then it dips rather suddenly,

[though not to as bad as it initially was]

and then you feel it still in you, the virus, lying, quietly

and you're still not over it, not fully, not really, not for good,

you won't be over it for a very long time.

not for quite a bit of time,

not for good,

you think.

it's really not easy.

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yesterday i was asked [again, though not for a long time],

'do you love yourself?'

and i found i couldn't really give the socially-desirable answer,

not without lying to myself, so i fibbed and kind of did yet didn't.

it felt faintly reminiscent of a conversation some time ago,

when someone asked me,

'can you do me a favour?'

and then i said, what is it?

and that someone said,

'love yourself/have more confidence in yourself from now on'

it's not that it doesn't matter,

it's not that i don't want to,

it's not that i don't care,

its not that i don't try

sometimes,

somethings,

just like some people [myself included]

are beyond [my] control.

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so what's there not to be happy about?

i have meals to eat,

a bed to lie on, a blanket to cover,

enough money to spend and save,

music to listen to in my spare time,

books to read, a [decent] school to study in,

a couple of [good] friends to hang out/depend on,

respectable parents and loveable sisters to live with,

there's really nothing not to like.

it's funny,

because even with all the wonderful/nice things you are bestowed with in life,

you/i/we are/am/are still able to pick at the small nittygritty details,

small disatisfactions, unpleasanties, occasional imperfections,

and be all grumpyfrumpy about it and complain about

and even easier it is,

to be unsatisfied,

with how imperfect you are as a person,

all the friends, the family, the books, the food aside

all these things aside,

it is even easier to become preoccupied with how starkly apparent it is [to me]

in countless ways, in multiple aspects, throughout life,

how imperfect, [i am], a person is.

would you love me if i were prettier?

would you find me cool if i were smarter?

would you choose me if i could run faster?

but really [what] does it matter?

and/but ultimately

it's not about you, him, her, or them or whoever;

it's besides the point, beyond the problem;

from the beginning,

from the start,

it was always me,

just me,

me,

me,

and me.

sometimes i think, even,

that it is a crime to be imperfect and yet be alive.