Prologue

Life has taught me that bad things happen to poor people. People with no money or luck; hard-working people who barely survive; people from labor and people from lower status.

They always say, "If you were more careful with the way you walk, you still would have

your shoes clean and wearable," or "If you didn't think that much when you walked, there wouldn't be any holes in your jeans. This is the third time I stitched them this month."

Per definition, you are always at fault.

But what about me? I'm not poor. I'm rich. I'm living in a luxurious apartment, surrounded with things I love and need, breathing every ounce of the air contained in it, and still suffer from the hands of my destiny.

No, the mishaps of poor people aren't their fault. Simply, it's an occurrence of moments, existing before the main event.

A child can't be blamed for the crack in the couch on which he sits on. A mother can't be held responsible for the economy in the country, which brutally beats her every day, and her will to work hard for her family. A man cannot be liable for life's cruel game.

Still, some questions leave me lidless of dreams. What about my piteous fortune? What about my nightmares? What about my fear of touch? What about my inability of the words of affection and tenderness?

I'm ample in richness, yet alone and cautious of life's injustices; I don't suffer from a shortage of possessions. On whom can I put the charges for the wrongdoings upon me?

Maybe someone. Or no one. Perhaps I fall short on kismet. Only time will tell. But I will take it lightly with each beat of my tired heart. There is still battle in my lungs. My blood doesn't boil for futile.