This is wrong. That is wrong. Everything is wrong. Complainers have their own language and loud voices.
They wait for me to rise in the morning, follow me around every day, eating my breakfast, lunch, and supper. They even follow me into the bathroom. On Sundays they attend worship service with me, shouting in my ear. They are everywhere I go, waiting to spring at me like vipers.
The world is an island made of shifting sand, pulling my feet out from under me. Perfect me, they say, belongs to a perfect world where ignorance and greed knock on Utopian doors, desperate to get in, but can’t.
I belong to a world where the light of truth and righteousness rule all desires, and where true wealth does not rise beyond one’s needs.
I belong to a world where every part of it gets the exact amount of rainfall each day that it needs, and the fury of nature is never unleashed. It smiles every day from its own confinement.
I belong to a world where sickness doesn’t exist; where everyone lives happily through their expectant years, and their waning ones are free of pain.
The more I try to force life to be the way I want it to be, the more desperate I have become. If life were perfect, that would be the remedy to pull me out of my misery, so all I can do is complain about it. As it is now, the more I complain, the worse it gets.
The perfect world is an ideal that society only strives to be like, so I should realize that it never will, and should be satisfied with the way it is. Humanity has to change, but each and every one has too many different desires to be fulfilled, forcing everyone to deal with the way the nature of humanity molded itself to be, and be satisfied with how things exist.
I abhor complainers. All things will never go their way. Their moaning and groaning sound like screeching wheels of a freight train. I want to cover my ears and hide in a soundproof room.
I hope God will forgive me for my sins, for I have become a complainer. I have satirized them with my own complaining. I have fled from them but have become one of them.
The imperfect world is amusing, because it is unpredictable. It shifts between all emotions depending on how society adjusts to the imperfections that they created. I would rather live in it though, because I want to be a part of life that lives making mistakes, laughing about them, and trying to correct them. Perfection doesn’t have the opportunity to. It just goes about its own robotic ways.
Life is a potpourri of bitter-sweet spices; a column of incense as it spirals toward heaven, a messenger from what life has become.
Woe is me to let myself be dragged into its bitter sadness with no means of escape. Woe is me.