Here’s to the ones who are not brilliant. Here’s to the people who question the very purpose of their existence, like I do. To the ones who feel like they do not belong, to the ones who feel they were born in the wrong century, in the wrong galaxy. Those who are full of insecurities, worries, doubts and fears. Those who feel crippled with paranoia and trapped in a meant coated skeleton. There are people like you and me, equally messed up, their souls equally complex and bruised. They too spend Sunday afternoons gazing at clear blue skies, trying to connect to their real self, looking for something to free them, to save them, waiting for miracles while sipping coffee. These people too are lost like you and me, their minds wandering aimlessly through forests and alleys, and places and countries, hoping to make sense of their own existence, hoping to be significant. Trying desperately to love themselves with the self-love they are told is the only cure, but failing miserably, horribly. So, on those evenings when your body and soul seem like two separate entities, when you feel exiled from the home within your own heart. Know that others feel this way today and others felt this way years ago. It’ll pass, it has to, right?