The Advent of Futility

The rite of the everyday arrived today with an abrupt force reminding me of the rigidity of life. There is an incessant cycle of existence that is defined by a routine that never fails to exhaust. There will always be the weekend and there will always be the Monday. I will not pretend to be one of the many who lament the arrival of this despised event, mainly because that reaction appears too commonplace in our lives. Too many of us work at jobs that we don’t like and too many of us complain without failure. Frankly, the entire process reminds me of the futility of life.

Am I to be a nameless blade of grass in this evergreen expanse of lawns that always conform to an established tradition? Is my existence so utterly devoid of perseverance that I will, for the rest of my life hate one day of the week? People who choose to associate themselves with this thought process forget that we are essentially who we aspire to be. If we wake up in the morning and proceed with our rudimentary lives with a sense of resignation we destroy a small part of ourselves everyday. We accept defeat even before facing battle.

I don’t proclaim to be a saint. I am not any different from the sea of people that pass me by as I walk these crowded streets. I am also part of the entire system of resignation. I wallow in futility not wanting to escape or own up to my actions. Today I realize that what differentiates me from the nameless faces around is a sense of awareness. I am aware of my plight and of all those around. I realize that in order to change the fabrics of your definition, you have to stand up and proclaim divergence from futility.

My day started and departed in a hasted frenzy. I fought my battles with vigor and determination. I won some and also lost a few. What was lost was not important and nor were the victories. What mattered was me standing up and fighting. The Advent of futility was met with defiance. As the moonlight falls upon me, lulling me into a warm surrender, I drift onto lands fabricated with the tiny grains of the sandman. The Battles for the night are only just beginning.