I spent my youth fighting my way into a city, hoping to become someone others would envy. I hid my wounds and traded them for a little pride in the eyes of family and friends. I couldn’t earn the material things I wanted, and was forced to give up distant places and poetic dreams. I wanted a quiet, stable life in the city, but reality eventually defeated my ideals. I fought with all I had, but couldn’t hold a family together. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t born into wealth. Should I still believe that hard work will be rewarded? Perhaps fate is just a joke.
I fought with all I had, but still couldn’t build a home. Perhaps those who come from elsewhere are destined never to put down roots. I bet my youth, I bet my dreams, and all I got in return was half a lifetime of exhaustion.
