Sometimes I feel guilty for being at peace with my life, because it's never just about me. I can't truly feel that way anyway, because the people I've chosen are always on my mind. I'm afraid to change anything, in case something breaks. They are doing what they love, and that calms me, because love is the best guide there is. Yet sometimes, even that isn't enough. That insecurity is always lurking. Misfortune knocks on someone else's door, and it takes my breath away. I put myself in their place. I share their pain and their anger. As if I'm addicted to despair. I ask myself, why am I the one who's okay? Now that I think about it, my superstitions abandon me. Death circles around me, yet I only ever move from my own place to stand in a stranger's shoes. Not once have I knocked on wood when tragedy struck. Only when everything is going well, and someone says something ominous, do I remember that I still believe in those selfish things. The heart can only hold what it can bear—but always a little more, just enough to stay alive. That's the only way it can be happy. If you don't give it what it needs, it freezes easily and forgets its human nature. It becomes a beast, thirsty for blood, desperate to take back what it lost. And when it finally does, it will still want a little more,just to be safe Misery is never being satisfied with anything. Happiness isn't really about you; it's always for someone else. It reminds us that happiness is something we owe each other. I finally feel a little better.