The kindest thing literature does is remind you that your peculiar little feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, was equally confused by love, bored by society, tired of performing, and hungry for meaning.
I hope life gifts you with people who won’t hesitate to hold your hand when you need it the most. Those who can detect the heaviness in your laughter no matter how much you try to conceal it.
Who immediately sense when your “I’m ok/I’m alright” is just survival speaking.
Accept your home situation such that you can work hard to change it, the more you pretend to be rich and impressing people is the more you become poor.
The problem with us is individualism. The problem is we don't understand the essence of protests, your average Kenyan thinks this is a holiday. That's why tomorrow we'll be back to work & business as usual. As long as we can afford our daily bread, we think everything is okay.