Here I bring the story of my breakfast today. The most of the story is in the memory (no longer in my taste buds or stomach) so I may not be as descriptive as I would be if I wrote this this morning. Please allow me to briefly state my breakfast routine that occurred this morning. Around 6: 30 a.m., a person called mother woke me up from the bed (of my room) and brought light to my eyes from what seemed like endless darkness. There was a clear controversy on whether I should wake up. I was left with a decision to bravely challenge myself to step out to the cold, hard rock floor or to stay enclosed in a kangaroo pocket of the blanket. It's a harsh dilemma that I have to face every morning. I quickly washed my face with the cold, icy splashes of H2O and then headed to the table filled with delicious looking food (for example, sunny-side up egg and a slightly burnt brown toast) waiting for me to devour them. I was glad to do so. It was definitely a "joy" to face food for the first time after a long long time of sleep. (when my stomach cried for substance) Almost immediately after I started devouring the delicious food, reality hit me: the bus was outside my house waiting, standing there for me with expressionless huffs of black smoke . I face a great dilemma whether to continue eating or to go out. The variety and great taste of food- sweet, soft, warm- were sufficient enough to make me stay but my mother screamed at me to go. (face the reality) How could one do other than to submit to their superior mother? Breakfast is surely a joy, but it is also a scheme planned by god to make me feel pain to desert my food, a dilemma that I need to face every day.
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