When all things fail, and you forget to realize why you were actually doing it in the first place, what is it then that you call that instance? Do you call it a random wanton disregard for details, or do you brush it off as a sad circumstance that at the end of the day would clear itself up and actually get fixed?

At the end of a cumbersome day, do we actually take time to look at whether the day went extraordinary for us? Or did it turn out to be extraordinarily ordinary? Time ticks for everyone, and at the sound of the chime, after all of the fuss, we begin to realize that we failed to see the bigger picture, let alone the details of the mishaps which could have been avoided, or the insouciant remarks that could have been dropped, or the mindless tact that we carried all day. At the end of it all, there is nothing more than solace – served on a cold silver platter, beheaded of all connection, of every ounce of significant instance, of each drop of perseverance, of pain, love, suffering, gloating and callous misbehavior. Nothing but solace.

We find ourselves met, “mentally-filled” be the better word, with myriad upon myriads of discomfort, ill thoughts – dirty ones, at times – or angst, and yet find little remorse to actually amend these on our own (mentally, still, of course). We rant of this and that at the top of our heads, but because of the very nature of being civil (or civilized, as we wish to be tagged), we forget that such thoughts, as innocent as we may see them, would and at times have, taken over our entire understanding of the circumstances that have birthed them in the first place. Funny, the very thoughts we intend to hide, creep outside and translate themselves into the simplest of details – a snobbish look, a demeaning smirk, an indifferent face – and all for what? To incessantly remain “civil,” although everyone knows that you’re but prying on the situation at hand (let alone unconsciously ensuring that things fall out of place so that your plans fall into place at the exact time).

Inasmuch as people would expect this to become a ranting of sort of the squeamishly bizarre quagmire I have beset unto myself, I would like to stop and restrain myself right now. No. This will not be about any ranting that I may still hold upon, or about grudges or angst or ill thoughts I have so wittingly harbored for the past few months. None of those, sad to say. This essay will be about you, and about how absurdly obnoxious you get when you are compounded with the idea that everything else would stir cold, even summer, as she enters autumn and turns to a full stop.

Mindless. That’s how stifled we get. As much as we would like to shout “dumb-ass”at ourselves several times when we spurt out a comment or fling a tweet over the Net that was unprecedented, let alone highly called for, we stop and think, scramble even, to revise, rephrase, and (quite drastically in the event of dire necessity) erase all traces of them. A teacher once said, “When you tell people something, broadcast it to millions, once it’s out there, it stays there.” I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to doubt that teacher. Many have, I guess, regardless of how many sweet thoughts are posted every day. Admit it or not, the sweet thoughts are just another way of saying, “dammit, we miss the way you did everything for everyone, but f*** you screwed it up, so now we have to do things on our own.” Sad, but true, we learn to accept.

In the course of our absurd pursuit to correct the ill-doings that we do, or plan to do, what do we become? Prisoners of the civility of who we really are? Mindless drones following a set of guidelines, so we don’t hurt other people’s feelings, when well in fact we so want to just crush their dreams, and blow their ideas, among other things? I hate you for being the dastardly coward that you are, hiding your true thoughts behind crocodile tears. At the start, people think you actually cared, but guile as we all get, people over-assume, and fail to see the third side of the story: personal vindication, let alone, projection of the mindless and wanton disregard for how people feel when you boss them around like drones.

Silly rabbit, I always say. We believe what we think we should. But wouldn’t it be equally absurd to realize that everything we believed in, turned out to be a lot of bull? (Yes, I quoted that from 500 DAYS OF SUMMER.) If this is so, I guess there really is nothing to worry about then. But the truth is, things aren’t okay. Life isn’t as easy as some rich snotty kid, or some over-aged woman whose having illicit affairs with lesbians or something, might think. No. Life is hard. Life is unfair. Life is cruel. Life has a funny way of making sure we fail at times, laughing heartily on top of a oak branch, tears falling down her cheeks, almost falling face flat on the ground from the rollicking torment that she has beset on us.

No, it ain’t as pretty as we picture it to be here.

Good thing though, at the back of our heads, we have a more solid grasp of this reality. Outside, we just have a pretty picture of making everything fall into place, just so everyone’s happy. But they’re not. We’re not. I mean, who is? I read from a book once, only man knows his true self. That can’t be any truer. No one knows what the other guy is thinking about, except for the other guy, right?

So it all boils down to this: We suck at making people’s lives better, simply because we suck at making ours better. And because we can’t make things turn for the better for ourselves, we rant, in silence, then push forward the absurd understanding of how to pay it forward (which by the way was a great movie). Am I in denial? Probably. Ask me if I was angry, vengeful and obnoxiously indifferent of some people, and I would give you a solid YES. But ask me if I was sure, and I would stare blankly at you, disillusioned still, thinking that I have an obligation to make sure you feel good whenever we talked, regardless of how much I want to shove everything about your scrawny thinking up your ass.

Hey, what can I say? We live to make people happy. That’s what we think about, when all else fails, and she shows up with her fugly humor. Carry on, then. Nothing to see here. At least not yet.