This is probably the biggest thing I have learned from Literature and others.
I am really lucky.
I could've been born into a family with two wicked stepsisters, a crazy stepmother who has textbook narcissism, or a grandmother who would send me into the woods by myself when there's dangerous critters afoot.
I could've been born in the Sudan during the 80's, to a poor Nepalese family during a drought, or in Afghanistan in the 90's.
I could've met my true love only to poison myself within 24 hours, went mad because my dearest killed my daddy, or been burst into flames because I made someone mad at prom.
This summer a great many of the books I have read have been "thank God that didn't happen to me books" which is a major change from my adoration of fantasy - the "why can't this happen to me, God?" genre.
And yet in the weirdest way, all these survival stories leave me wishing I had their drive, their hutzpah, their abilities.
And at the same time, I sit back on the IKEA couch where I read and hope that I learn something.
Maybe become more anti-material. Anti-head-in-the-sand.
At least more aware of how lucky I am to do simple things. Leave my country without worries. Drink tap water. Have a job.
Write a blog...