I never, ever, in my life time, consider myself as a good person. I mean good. Or kind. Like Forrest Gump kind of kind. Or like Steve Rogers, if he’s real. Like honest, gentle, caring, family man kind of good. No. Never.
To be frank, I am a bad person. I curse like a sailor. I treat people like they don’t matter much. I don’t know if there’s a single person I knew (heck, in the world) that I had never lied to. I raise my chin up high and I drive recklessly.
But you know, I never liked being a bad man. I hate the sense of guilt. I hate the aftertaste of doing bad things. I don’t enjoy being bad.
So I try to be good.
Turns out it’s the hardest thing to do. Why? because good is relative. And the things you’ve done in the past, how you look like, and the vibe that comes with your attitude, affect it’s value tremendously. Not to mention that all kind of people demand all kind of goodness.
But I keep trying.
But you can never satisfy everyone. Classic. And the more people you try to make happy, the more of them disappoint.
I guess that’s what there is to live, though. I kind of sceptical on what the old men say: “Treat others the way you want to be treated.” or “Good things come for those who waits” or any other kind of bullshit. You know what? Bad people win. They win plenty of fight against good, and there’s nothing you can do except convincing yourself that hell is real and it hath no fury. I mean, how often you see bad drivers who cut in traffic got pulled over by cops? or caught in an accident? How often did you see them run away while flipping you off instead?
I don’t live for the last laugh, though.
Happiness is a delicate thing. It is supposed to be earned, never given. For those who receive, will take it for granted.
But I’ll be good anyway.