Ideals decorate books, not life

Falling into those myriads of thoughts,

I take my chance, not to contemplate the things I did,

But turn around and see how different it could’ve been done.

It is not about the accomplishments that I made,

It is rather the things I did not do that hurts.

Those times when I could have lived a better son,

The times I could have acted a better brother,

If not a better friend, at least a better acquaintance.

The opportunities I let go with the one I loved,

Everything hurts, and if only I could do something about it.

If only I could go back into time,

Not to undo the mistakes I did, for mistakes are never undone,

But to have thought on their behalf, and to have acted with little more wisdom.

I never could identify myself with anyone,

Not anyone I met, not anyone I heard about,

Not a single character I read about could reach me at all,

And then I met him, and I felt something within,

Howard Roark, he epitomised what I wanted from life.

You could call me foolish, for I was living in fool’s paradise,

For everything I believed in was in its idealistic form,

And now I know where I went wrong, for ideals decorate only books,

Not reality.

Now I am strewn between the life I once knew, the life I once cherished,

And the awakening within, that has shown me what life truly is.

I feel like a kid, awestruck by the magnanimity of life,

For nothing I saw or heard come close to the dawn of realisation,

That I just had.

That life is not about ideals, nor about principles,

It is about living, cherishing, smiling and giving.

I sure may have a hard time living up to it,

Yet I hope I do not give up this effort,

Life is only one, and living it is a lifetime.