Consent

When you choose to scale a mountain, you never ask how the mountain feels about it.
When you eat a sandwich, you never ask the bread or meat for its consent.
When you run a race, you never ask the finish line (or anyone else) if you can cross it.
When you fly in an aeroplane, you never ask gravity if it consents to being defied.
When you play an instrument, you never ask the instrument if it wants to be played.
When you watch TV, you never ask the TV before turning it on.
When you sleep, you never ask your bed if it is ready to be slept in.

.
.
.
.
.
.

But what about other people?
What about the only people that matter to me?
What about me?

How do they feel?
How will I feel if they do not feel as I feel? What right do I have to their feelings?
What possible justification can I give that would convince them to grant me their consent, even once?

To achieve the trust of fellow human being is so much more difficult than to conquer a goal. Because how they feel about it is so intrinsically important.