A blog to myself.

Read about a life in Syria and I wonder how I ever dare to complain. But soon I'll forget and return to the familiar comfort of self pity.

My Mum was in England when she had me and so my life has followed such a path. A privileged one.
I saw this kid on the street in Mumbai and while I've seen sad sights like that before - kids climbing out of sewers, ancient weary elders climbing into coffin sized shacks to sleep. But something slapped me harder this time.

He lead under a blanket in the mid day heat, flies on his wincing face. He was sick and in pain and alone. Too weak to move into the shade, too weak to care. Why couldn't I pick him up as my mum would have done for me? I could afford to solve his problem and money would solve it. So would the change in the back pocket of the 2% who hog 98% of India's wealth. But of course I didn't help, I did as all the other cowards did; Nothing.
We dropped him some biscuits which his eyes didn't even flick too, although when I looked back I saw a hopeful little hand reach out to collect them.

Something that clicked hard in India, seeing the horde of desperate lives, was that by nothing more than chance, I could have been that kid on the street. Just chance that I have a life of a thousand opportunities when he has just one - to try and survive.

Days spent working towards more meaningless money - contentment? - when I already have the handful of important things I need. What I don't have is unimportant.
No matter what family I have, what job I have, what education I have, I will never starve.

And when I sleep alone shivering in my flimsy tent, I'll try and remember: I have everything I need.
Chance favored me, I was lucky, so be grateful. Stop moaning about the details.