Of Lies, Assumptions and Foolish Pursuits of Perfection
It's easy to rally against someone when you don't even know half of the true story. Isn't it foolish to rage and rant over something you don't even know half of what is really going on? Like a child scolding the fire because it burnt his hand. Like a cat hissing at the glass door because it ran into it. Like an idiot leading the blind.
Assumptions are such easy things. Such convenient tools to manipulate to our own likings, to our own wants, to our own simple desires. For want of being right. For want of being the victim. Isn't it easy being a victim? All you need is to assume fictionalized stories, imagine stupendously mad scenarios, cry foul, and roll all over the floor. And of course everyone else would rally behind you, irregardless of the truth. Because in the end of the day we're all humans, no? And humans are sometimes stupid, no?
Some people forget that in the end of the day, we're all humans. If you're looking for perfection, if you're looking to be right every single time, if you're looking for a permanent shelter to all your tears and sorrows, you're looking at all the wrong places. Perfection doesn't exist, just a modest reminder. It's most unfortunate that we would always look at all the things gone wrong rather than everything else that have gone right.
You climb a thousand stairs, miss a step and come tumbling down a thousand steps to the ground. What would most people rather pay attention to? Well, why would they care for that thousand steps you took? Why would they care for all the right things you did, for all the effort you put in, for everything you did to do your very best? They would only care that you faltered. That you came crashing down, breaking every bone in your body, burnt to crisp. And there they are, standing tall with their self-righteous smiles, pissing on your ashes. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside out.
Isn't it convenient to be selfish? Isn't it convenient to forget that maybe, just maybe, the rest of us are going through our own hell? That sometimes certain things aren't meant to be spoken. For reasons that can't even be uttered to begin with. And maybe, just maybe, in a matter of time it will be spoken of. In the end of the day, we're all strangers. It's just a matter of to what degree, to what extent. You may know yourself, but maybe not entirely yet. You may know your friends, but maybe, no, most definitely, not entirely. We're all strangers. This is life. This is the real world. Deal with it.
Lies, lies, lies.
There's only so much I can take.
One day, sooner or later, I'll break.
