the diary of someone who never understood the world — even though he understood it well enough
ผู้แต่ง
athanasia(อาธานาเซีย)เรื่องย่อ
the diary of someone who never understood the world — even though he understood it well enough
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The Diary Awaiting Oblivion (ENG)
the diary of someone who never understood the world — even though he understood it well enough
sitting idly on the northbound train, i picked up my phone and scrolled through clips on Douyin. the images were simple — people rising early to tend their gardens in the mist, children running along the wide ridges of the fields, adults laboring under the gray sky. life seemed to move without haste, as if time itself held a meaning different from that in the city
the contrast with life in Thailand was stark. not merely in material or environment, but in the very posture people carried toward the world — they appeared closer to being than to striving
a thought rose suddenly:
“i wanna go there as a volunteer — into the deep villages, to teach the children what they lack”
— to teach them something they might want
— to teach them something they might need
— to teach them something they might have missed
but as soon as the thought formed, a faint disgust followed — not because the thought was bad, but because it carried the arrogance hidden beneath the name of “kindness”
perhaps i dont wish to teach them so their lives would be better, but simply to feel good about myself — as if i had done something special
i told myself they were “pitiful” because they lacked opportunity, lacked technology, lacked the open world to choose from. but in truth, perhaps the only pitiful one is me — the one who keeps stealing meaning and worth through constant comparison with others
and if i were to trade places — if I truly lived there — would i still call that life pitiful?
or would i discover that the truly pitiful one is the person who must prove his own worth by pretending to help those he sees as lower?
maybe what i want is not to help them at all, but to use them as a mirror — to say, “look at me, ive value, because im helping those beneath me”
perhaps pity is not compassion at all, but contempt dressed in a sweeter scent, arranging ourselves silently above others
and perhaps happiness never truly existed — it is nothing more than the brief pause of someone too exhausted to keep resisting the world, indulging for a moment in what they want to do
in the end, i know these answers cannot be handed to me
and even the words of someone else, no matter how deep, will never fill the hollow space of the answer im still searching for inside myself