Yesterday, my mom asked me why I couldn't do something meaningful in my life.
Fine, she didn't ask me; she sort of snapped at me angrily.
I try, I really do try.
Yet, what is deemed as meaningful?
My idea of altruism has always been something along the lines of helping the poor; like the kids in Africa, orphans in Cambodia. Doing something for the good of Mankind was what I thought of as meaningful, something to make the sufferings of others easier.
And that has always been my dream. To find a cure for cancer - any type of cancer - and help thousands of people all over the world. To spare the victims the pain of such vicious cancers, and to spare their loved ones the grief of their passing. And I vowed to dedicate my whole life to researching it, because I knew that one lifetime was not enough to discover a cure. At least, in that way, when I finally die, someone else can pick up where I left off, till the cure is found.
Yet, for all the ambition my dream presents, I cannot even will myself to offer a helping hand to the immediate people around me; people I actually know. Why am I helping pure strangers, and in turn, neglecting those who are my friends, those who are my family?
I could call up a friend right now, and cheer her up, laugh with her all day long.
But I don't.
Or I could arrange an outing with friends who so desperately need to go out.
But I don't.
At the end of the day, maybe there is no clear distinction between what's meaningful, and what's plain silly. Maybe it's just about what's right, and what you can't be bothered to do.