The Beautiful Stories Will Make Me

—Confession of a man of no use— The beautiful stories make tears stand in my eyes, does it mean that I am still alive? Although there are lots of sad stories that end to be the beautiful ones surround us, I don’t thrust myself even into a scene of a little episode, and effort to change it as to a beautiful one but faltering, exert myself to find some way outs. Is it because I am nothing but a jerk? Although no one will honor or decorate the death of the warriors who fought in the jungle to feed hungry ones, or no one will pray for the souls of kind-hearted people who renounced the worldly honor, and step deeper and deeper into the remote village to become the good friends for the forsaken ones shall die, their cries in the air and struggle to win justice may echo in the jungle incessantly, the worthwhile lives they lived through will remain as pride to their lost souls, or in the memory of the forgotten ones. I may be a spiritless jerk because I do not make the careful consideration of a prudent chess player before being each move I make, but live from force of habit as a routine in these disgusting days, and as a consequence, I am not able to distinguish good from evil or to choose good out of evil any more. Nonetheless, for I still blush with shame of myself when I hear a beautiful story, as before, I am alive I suppose.