Sometimes, you have this strange feeling, where the voice in your head exhorts you to speak out and flood your eyes in front of someone. Someone who would listen to you and cosset you. You go to that “someone” and pour your heart out, but somehow, you’re not feeling any better, and quite on the contrary you’re disappointed. Well…. because you were imbued with the hope of receiving sympathy in return, and it didn’t turn out the way you were expecting it to.
Allow me to advise you to be selective in choosing that “someone”. Wouldn’t it be queer if you mourned about flood in your city infront of a resident of Venice? Or, if you complained about falling temperatures to a citizen of Greenland? Wierd, eh? What I wish to tell you is that, when you tell your feelings to people, not everyone feels the way you want to be felt. Confiding into someone who has suffered more than you is not a good pick, I would say.
Getting pricked by a thorn is rough to you, not to someone who has spent nights on beds of needles. The scorching sun is disturbing to you, not to someone who has walked on embers. For those who have suffered more than you, your sufferings will only seem like a jest and all they will have to offer to say to you is “I’ve seen worse”.
I don’t think that’s quite what you want to hear.
The perfect person to confide to is he who has seen only rose petals, for whom imagining its thorns is painful. It is he who has seen the sun only through the dark screens of sunglasses. Your sufferings will haunt him. He won’t be able to feel your pain, but will feel its intensity. He is the perfect listener you have been craving.