futile statistics.

You see, you longed for happiness but did nothing to try to achieve it. After all, did you even believe in happiness anymore? You complained incessantly of the system’s faults, and my flaws; you saw it, magnified it, believed it wholeheartedly, proclaimed it to the world, and there your heart was set in stone- you left no capacity for the benefit of a doubt, you decided that people were so often ugly and flawed and unkind, driven only by motive and benefit, and expedience was your mantra.

Maybe, if you believed in goodwill and focused on the beauty in others, you mightn’t be so unhappy; maybe, maybe if you learnt to let go of the misgivings and tried to look beyond my imperfections, you could have learned to love me; maybe, maybe if you didn’t view everything so negatively, and stopped doubting me for once, the future could’ve been so much brighter.

But you chose to remember- everything that was wrong about me, about the world; you chose to be bitter about the little things that kept you hard and guarded; you chose to allow an unintended result to overshadow my good intentions; you chose to hurt intentionally, just so you could even the score. Did it make you feel all better? Were you happy afterwards? I hope it did, I really hope it did; at least then I would know that your and my efforts were not in vain and that a nett gain in your favour was its result- because that was the only way you saw the world to be improving- by your standards.