Work
I hate work, to be honest. Working makes me haggard. It makes my face grow with pimples and eye bags. It creates a sinister aura around me whenever I execute something. It helps me lack the enthusiasm to finish tasks. That’s why I hate work.
I hate work. It forces me to break my free time. It hinders me from doing extra activities. It drags me down to hell after I consume all the energy from my body. I’m always cornered into a situation where I should keep on working just to beat the deadline, never realizing I was almost on the edge of my dead line. That’s why I hate work.
I hate work. It always slaps the truth: that I should give value on how I should be working. I should not complain and comply instead. This world will never give you everything without the cost of working. So, I should work.
Now, I love work. It makes me feel accomplished and successful. Whenever I finish one, I’m pumped up to do another. Work told me that if I do effort up until the end, my dreams will become real and sweet. Now, I value work more than just whining.
