There is something fascinating about unhappy people living unfulfilled lives.

Why? He asks inwardly.

Perhaps they're reminders of what you may end up as, he answers himself.

When he was young, he believed in living his dreams. He wanted to be an artist, a teacher, a writer, a doctor and a singer.

With age, the veneers of ambitions strip away, leaving a hollow center.

He saw people struggling to put food on the table. He saw the mentally disabled and aged being sidelined in a sprawling metropolis. He realised his helplessness.

He heard stories of people achieving what they aimed for - only to realise that what they wanted wasn't what they needed. He read The Great Gasby, Of Mice and Men and The Bluest Eye.

Little by little, he realised that almost everyone was unhappy, that almost everyone was unfulfilled.

A parade of facades; a farce of what should be.

Why is life so sad? He asks himself.

Why is life so sad? He asks God.

No answer is given. He stares at his wrinkled left palm, quietly fingering the longest crease.

From the corner of his vision, he sees his drawing of a little frog. That amphibian seems to be frowning at him, its mouth pursed. His eyebrows draw closer and he stares back. What's your problem, froggie? Wanna fight?

After a nanosecond, he gives up. He should seriously stop being so lame, to resort to a meaningless staring contest with - heaven forbids! - a frog.

And you, he speaks to himself, must not be a living zombie.

Dream of flight
Yvan Lozzi Pestalozzi