You breathe!

So you think you are so great? That the universe owes you a living, that the you were sent with a mission and people around you are duty-bound to care for you, pave the path for you with petals of blessings and perfume of comfort. That, it is your right to demand this and that. And put the tag of duty to it, laying down your own rules on how those before you are expected to behave. As if the ones before you had it on a silver platter. Have it slipped your mind that it is their toil that cradles you to slumberland without a care in the world, without a  flash of thought on your next meal and next course in life.

Now with the strength that you picked from the broth fed to you spruced with parental love and care had turned vile against your feeders.  Their actions and inactions are glaringly plain to you as if they were retard of faculties. That new science that you proudly sing is just a rationalisation of your inefficiencies, not theirs. They gave what they had with the best of knowledge, best of intent, best of faith. Not accepting remunerations but for the sin of the minute's pleasure which is the seed of civilisation.

You are lucky. You were lucky. If not for the stars, for constellations, you may just be a crying seed or half a seed washed down the abyss of mice infested cesspool of filthy muck.
You were just plain lucky that the universe, one day, at the time of your formation, decided that you should have the right chemical milieu and neurotransmitters to develop pass beyond the trilaminar plate to be what to you are. Nature took pity and allowed your existence. Nature, the hostile un-nurturing parent, gave you the armamentarium to exist. It did not happen by chance. Maybe it did, but the master plan, the chaos of the butterfly effect of randomised probability were, in that micro-fragment of microsecond, blinked and you exist!

Mellow down, descend your mighty saddle. You and I are just alms of that nidus called existence, so fragile, so flimsy that a slight sniffle from the mosaic of life could send all to non-existence. Crying over spilt milk is futile and would only give a bad unpasteurised after-taste. Repent? Or is it just the game orchestrated by the dice thrower?