The Diary of a Failure
The sky wasn't pouring that day, but a storm of melancholy was brewing inside me. I touched the pen to a torn page of my diary resting on the table. My hand trembled. In one corner, I wrote— "I am a failure."
Being born into a middle-class family means your burdens are always heavier than your dreams. When the last ten-taka note in my pocket runs out, I feel as if my very existence is fading away. To society, I am just a "good-for-nothing." The crooked smiles of relatives and the whispers of neighbors—they pierced my heart like arrows.
I had friends too. One group dragged me into the intoxication of idle chatter, saying— "Life is short, just enjoy it." On the other side was Rony, who would occasionally warn, "If you keep going like this, you'll end up on the streets." I didn't listen to him.
Then, she entered my life. Looking into her eyes made me feel like all the pain in the world could be forgotten. But for the middle class, love is nothing but a luxury. One afternoon, she said in a calm voice, "Listen, love doesn't put food on the table. I see no future with you."
I went home that day and stood before the mirror. I didn't see tears; I saw a pair of burning eyes. With a heart full of resolve, I wrote a new oath— "Those who laugh at me today will one day fear to look me in the eye." That night marked the beginning of my battle to rise like a phoenix from the ashes.