There has always been times for me that the meaning of effort seems fragile. I can never be the top one, the distinguished one, or even an excellent one. There are always people seemingly for me to rival but actually unmatchable. Faced with all of the reality, I am often feeling in need of some forced rest once and for all. Effort the intriguing thing is just a pretext for all the failures, including me, who would hate to fail.

I could imagine, however, a life without effort. I could cater for my indolence, my entertainment, and my liberty of time. Life would seem rather blissful, with no turmoil in the heart, and with tranquility or else delight. Every day will be spent separately, accumulating but a few consistent inspirations or motivations. Happiness is only the design and faith that resemble pleasure.

But when I look at those in a dreadful state of mind, chasing their ideals and competing with each other relentlessly, in fact I don’t necessarily observe a negative and unutterable drawing. The greatest is only one, but those who are great are all about the world. Effort and rivalry are exhibited as the most glorious thus most optimistic concepts of everyone’s life. They have no fear, because it is the only selection of which they would rather take advantage. The finest truth is that the uppermost pride should be supported by the down-to-earth action, the unwavering effort that humbles the vain glory of a man.