As I sit here, under the cool fan, I feel a bitterness that I cannot quite explain. I feel that no matter how hard I try, no matter how tough I tell myself to be, I am just as attached as I were two years ago. I feel that he can fill in the emptiness I feel inside and on every blank page I struggle to write on. I feel that my anger is not towards him, but towards his lack of words.
Like him, I feel bitter about the world and our future as citizens of this flawed world. I have no faith that the next generation will prosper; we have abused all and everything that has been given to us; we have exhausted our resources, our earth, and the entire greenery. We are torn by a thunderstorm that deprives us of our wonderful, 24/7 electricity that we rely on with full dependency. We are angered when the power is gone and we are left with no Internet connection. A flicker of light frustrates us because we know nothing can be done without it.
We complain about the president we elected as a people and yet continue to show little interest towards the next election. We yell about gas prices and still go and buy that second car we always wanted.
Maybe the bitterness I feel is not just an outcome of selfishness and arrogance. Maybe the bitterness I feel has deeper roots that rise from my surroundings, my family, and ordinary strangers. Maybe I too want people to care. Maybe I too am sick of mediocrity and the ignorance of youth.
I can only write about the bitterness I feel. I can only say that I am angry for our losses in Iraq, our apathy that led to the war, our arrogance that made us believe liberty and democracy would save us in the end. What gives us this privilege to watch as the world falls apart, starves from malnutrition, and breaks by earthquakes and tsunamis? What makes us so special to expect Starbucks to satisfy our thirst and fast food to alleviate our insatiable hunger? Are we entitled to these rights because we are governed under liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Are we entitled because of the American dream that promises and urges us to buy our happiness at all costs?
I love America. I love that I am a citizen of this great land. I also believe that we are too greedy and too obsessed, too individualistic, too arrogant. Why should I, a 20 year-old who has suffered nothing and no hardship, believe that I could be a great writer? Why am I selfish enough to do anything to make myself happy? Who gave me this right? Who said that I am free to do whatever I please?
My bitterness does not end here. There is a constant battle within me; a battle I have been fighting and will continue to fight. The battle I fight involves, of course, the writer within me that despises my illusions and idealism, finds me miserable and selfish. Perhaps I have become so obsessed with my illusions of greatness that I am blinded by the little happiness that is all around me. Perhaps I am so deluded that I have lost my rationality and logic. Perhaps it is my destiny to be unfulfilled, obsessed and insatiable.
I will fight. I will not stand to see the world fall before me. I will not be miserable because the world is not great. I will not doubt my ability to better myself. I have been given a great gift and I must do all I can to give back.
As I sit, watching the dark skies fall behind me, I wonder what tomorrow will feel like. I only hope that this bitterness dissipates so that I can see the full brightness of this house that, like you said, has come out of a storybook.

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