My grandma used to say,             “Empathy is about finding echoes of another person in yourself.” I was never great with this understanding or emphasizing stuff. From the moment I learnt to walk, I have done everything on my terms. I studied what I wanted, dated who I wanted, drive at the speed of wind, broke rules I didn’t like and enjoyed life to its fullest. And I don’t have an apology for any of it. Giving a dam about what others think was never my style. I am a free bird and my talons are always ready to protect my freedom. I didn’t really care about other’s feeling. Not that I am rude or outright blunt, I just don’t care. My tomboyish look and attitude isn’t the most attractive thing to the opposite gender. Thank God for that, I don’t have to deal with those sweet chocolates promises of eternal love (that dies in 2 months in reality) that plagues today’s teenagers. That left dating just a new hobby to try.  Empathy is not my cup of tea. But the nature spirits of my family may have other ideas. It blessed (or cursed) me with this strange power to feel emotions of those who were buried. Those emotions are not haunting me, they rather seem sad. And it is in my power to switch them off. But what would it feel like to hold a regret of eternity.  That it it. I shouldn’t have felt the last sentence. But somehow I did. Especially when my grandma joined the buried and left burden of her legacy on me. Now I have to make a choice. Weather to ignore this strange feeling and continue to just enjoy my life. Or open my heat to the emotions radiating from graves. I cannot empathize with living. Am I even qualified to empathize with the dead?