LIFE, a four-letter word but it takes an eternity to understand its meaning. Is it merely about existence? Throughout history, the pursuit of life's meaning has resulted in a great deal of philosophical, scientific, religious, and metaphysical speculation. The meaning of life, as we see it, is drawn from philosophical and religious reflections on existence, social ties, consciousness, and happiness, as well as scientific research. Many additional questions are at stake, including symbolic meaning, ontology, value, purpose, ethics, good and evil, free will, the existence of one or more gods, God's conceptions, the soul, and the afterlife.

Our brain accounts for about 2 percent of our body weight, but it is the most powerful organ in our body—compelling, authoritative, and persuasive. A human being would not exist if he or she did not have a brain, because humans call themselves humans because of the brain—the intelligence, consciousness, and intellect. Consider this: what if we, the so-called humans, were born without brains? The natural landscape of this planet would be superior. Rivers and streams would be clear, the air would be clean, and the land would be rich, rather than depleted and contaminated with chemicals. The rainforests would not be destroyed, and innumerable animal species would not be driven to extinction as a result of human greed and brutality. There would be no fights, no bloodshed, only life blossoming everywhere. There would be serenity everywhere—the kind of serenity we need but can't seem to get enough of because the human mind is tainted.

To put it mildly, the brain is the king, and our body is the entire territory ruled by the king. Isn't a queen necessary for a king's stability? Obviously, yes. Our heart accounts for 0.5 percent of human body weight—again, a crucial organ—the heart is the queen of our body—obviously inferior to the brain, but it's the only thing that keeps your humanity alive, right? The brain and the heart rely on one another. The heart experiences emotions, understand sorrow, and is capable of expressing mercy when needed, but the brain operates logically and rationally—devoid of feelings and emotions. The heart is deemed weak in comparison to the brain, but when the brain fails to make decisions, the heart steps in—the kindness and sentiments it carries are even capable of softening the cold heart of the devil, so how can it be deemed weak?

Having a brain makes you human, but having a heart makes that human retain its humanity.

I was never that analytical and insightful, but I felt there was something unusual about me. The little steps I took when I saw a beggar devouring the pancakes from the garbage were causing my heart to ache in unfathomable excruciating agony, and unable to see him struggling for food, I offered him some cookies from the glass jar I was saving for Christmas, but as I leaned in to offer him some of my cookies, he kicked me hard in the stomach and ran away with my jar. I was in tears, but I did understand that a human being will go to any length to survive. Depending on the circumstances, he will love, hurt, and kill. My father rushed toward me, hugging, consoling, and soothing me because my father can bear any suffering in the world, but when it comes to me—his daughter—Emma Brown, he would rather sacrifice everything—every ounce of his blood, flesh, and even his life—than let anything bad happen to me.

Olivia Brown, my mother, was the most beautiful lady I had ever seen—the epitome of grace and virtue. I've had a habit of asking too many questions since I was a child because I wanted to learn and grow and understand why some people are rich and others are poor, why some people are kind and others are bad, and why some people are angels and others are devils. My mother used to answer my questions, but the answers didn't seem to convince me until my parents died.

My parents died when I was seven years old. I was in the same car with my parents, and they both died, but I survived, and I began to live my life questioning myself—questioning my existence. After their death, I encountered the real world—an existence where angels stow away under the mask of devils and where the devils stow away under the mask of angels.

My developing brain was subjected to a major trauma, which pushed me into the darkness that swallowed me, leaving me shattered, broken, and dead on the inside. The nightmares and hallucinations used to consume me until I was completely miserable, but I always remembered what my father taught me: a smile does not always indicate how happy you are, but it does indicate how tough you are in the face of life's difficulties. So I did what my father told me to do: I smiled.

My paternal grandparents took custody of me after the death of my parents. My grandfather didn't like me, but my grandmother does—but she pities me more than she loves me.

Mikey, my only best friend, moved to England for his studies shortly after the death of my parents. I was bullied at school. My classmates used to call me paranoid and so I hated it until I met a girl who became my best friend. She understands me more than anyone else and that was more than enough for me.

Time passed, and I entered college, but the bullying intensified. Except for Jenna, my best friend, and a guy named Liam, who used to like me, I felt like an extraterrestrial creature in the world. To be honest, Jenna and Liam were more than enough for me, but life is a fickle beast; just when you think you've got enough, it snatches something from you, leaving you with nothing since enough will never be enough ever.

My days are grey like ashes and my nights are too long-winded and dismal.

I lay down to rest but no dreams come, it's for the best because my dreams are more like frightening hallucinations.

I strive to get away from the dark and gloomy days.

No one can see me now, so I'll look within myself for something, and maybe that something will make sense in life's deception.

Time continues to slip away, and the night sky appears to be a desolate alabaster grey.

Sometimes, my numbness doesn't allow me to feel things.

In my defense, I'm cynical; happiness is long gone.

I could hear the tortured voices in my mind shouting me to bite the dust, however, something inside of me won't allow me, I guess it's hope.

They say that the eyes are a mirror to the soul, but isn't that just a cliché?

Because no one sees it, or if they do, they ignore it.

My eyes portray a different narrative; I am a victim of my past demons.

People's first impression of me is based solely on my charming smile, which overshadows all of my pain—I'm quite adept at masking my pain.

No one looks me in the eyes and sees my anguish, and perhaps no one ever will, but I still hope that it will cease soon.

Even when all the doors to substantiality are closed, hope dares to bloom.

I can fall in love among the stars by not giving up hope that the gates of joy will emerge.

When all you see is fog, hope builds the path from the fog.

And then he entered my world—my gloomy world—as my life slowly and steadily began to get back on track. My entire world turned upside down when the devil himself appeared in my dark and dreary existence. Sergio Leonardo Fiorentino, a name that screams power, dominance, and authority. He was a devil—a hot devil—a devil disguised as a man, and that day I realized: the devil doesn't arrive clothed in a crimson cape with pointed horns. He appears like all you've ever longed for. He was hell, darkness, sinister, domineering, powerful, and ruthless. I was drawn to his darkness until it entirely enveloped me in his world. His world was vastly different—significantly so. I was afraid of him since he wanted to kill me and almost did, but then he abducted me to protect me. He confronted me with one of the truths of my life that devastated my existence—that asserted to me that my entire life had been a lie. People often say, 'Once a devil, always a devil,' but I disagree; perhaps it's just a transition because the devil was once an angel. I could never love the devil, can I? No, I can't because I've heard it said that when a devil and an angel fall in love, it never ends well—never.

For him, I don't need words to explain how and what I feel.

But I sensed something—a queer feeling—a connection because, in his arms, I felt something I'd never felt before. A primitive and profoundly absurd sensation of belonging—a sense that I was destined to belong to him.

WELCOME TO MY WORLD