I wouldn't say I've had a difficult life. In all honestly, it's been quiet, calm, nice. I've never been inflicted with painful hunger that wasn't caused by myself. I've never been forced to work endless and sleepless hours for little more than pennies due to anyone other than my own hubris. I've seen what may have laid in front of my path had I been born into a less privileged life, and I'm reminded of it by just looking down the street from where I park my car. I'm reminded of it when I'm told of my own luck, what's been given to me, that nothing was earned without the help of others. But that never quelled the deep sadness that I felt below my skin, the hollowness between bones, the muffled sound that felt too far away and hard to understand. I felt fleeting and small, like nothing I had belonged to me, yet everything expected something in return for simply existing in its space. What could I give it to secure its silence, what else other than my borrowed life?