Perhaps out of general exhaustion and lack of acknowledgement on any given day, or maybe, out of randomness, I let myself slither into the more selfish parts of who I am this morning. Since then, it has been a day immersed in the sad thanklessness of what I call life. They teach us never to expect credit, that it is perverse and immoral, but why should someone do anything then?
There are times when you do the work, and if all goes correctly, I wager there is a moment of celebration or acknowledgement. A farmer toils for harvest. There is no other reason for his work. Bushels of grain and fruit is why he bears the sun, day after day, over and over. And if they are empty season after season? I reckon he will find another line of work. But what of all we do for the world we live in, for the corner we call our life? Do you ever get a chance to reap something out of it? Part of me knows this lacklustre feeling of being overlooked is but exhaustion, but on some days, we can throw a tantrum and bitch about the parts of our lives we don’t quite like.
I detest this part: for all my motivation to do good work, to do good, in general, to do the right thing whenever I can, I barely garner claps or a note of thanks. Often this does not bother me at all. Then, there are days when I wake up, and my first thought is the pointlessness of my actions. Even these words that I write day after day are acknowledged sparingly, if at all, and if they are, it is by those who already know about them.
For the better part of a decade, I have been fighting uphill for everything, to live a righteous and better life, not to waste most of it, and if I stumble or err, to do better. I have beaten myself up to an alienation I cannot explain. Ultimately, all my noble habits are for nought, all my words remain hidden, and I go unnoticed no matter where I am. This feeling has engulfed me today, like this quiet, purple June sky has engulfed the city. Perhaps, there is nothing else left to do today but to take a walk and sleep. It is a thankless existence for most of us. No snare drums thump for our arrival. We move silently from one place to another, busy living as they taught us to.