In Toronto, there is a longest street in the world, called Yonge. I have been living along Yonge street for more than five years. Every time when I take a walk down its lengthy stretch, not only do I feel refreshed and energized physically, but I also get swamped with a sense of familiarity that each and every little neighborhood along the stretch that greets me with.
Lately, I have become less and less inclined to hear what other people, who are known to my family, are up to in their lives. I know that I should have been more curious to learn about their endeavors, at least demonstrated my fake enthusiasm more outwardly. But, I am not and do not. It is not easy to be happy for others when my life is still in the gray, not having many color dimensions to enjoy.
Aren’t we raised to be pretentious communicators? Aren’t we supposed to convey an expected sentiment, even when we are not in alignment with it deep in our hearts, for the sake of politeness? It is interesting to learn that, oftentimes, the world is fine with our getting in touch with pretentiousness, rather than the genuineness that resides in our hearts.