Nos illusions parfaites.

Every once in a while I am trying to figure out what life entails. There are these moments where you would die in agony if something doesn’t go your exact way. And there are these moments when you feel like you are just a pismire, waiting to be swallowed by that big bad hourglass.

Because who exactly are we? One of the 6.992 billion? Sometimes I feel like any concept of ourselves is an illusion.

I don’t mean to say this to get you all depressed, but only thinking about this makes me barmy. Homo sapiens or animalia, we all wake up, we live, we sleep, and we die. It is everybody’s fate and we deal with it. I guess in one way, the whole world population is the same.

I can discuss this topic for hours, because it is so dumbfounded and no answer is there to give. But I have a very strong sentiment for the saying Life is what we make of it, because I feel like it actually is. I firmly believe that every decision we make brings us to the point where we will ultimately arrive. That successful career, that happy family life, that smile on your face when you realize you live the way you want to live, or lets say the other way around, at that job you hate, in a stuck relationship, lonely and gloomy and realizing that time went by too fast, or not fast enough.

We create a concept of ourselves, that gives either the green or red light of satisfactory in life. It is not someone else that makes your choices, but us ourselves, as the living, are our own engineers of happiness.

It’s our own illusion.

And that’s perfect. 

By Sander