It is true that the grind of life never ends, and the strange oddity in our attitude is that we persist in thinking that the grind itself is at fault. The grind of life is continual, filled with troubles that test our ability to let go and detach. We are encouraged by life to be indifferent to the results, yet ever hopeful to stumble upon the right formulas.
Men are moulded by society in such a fashion as to be offended by every stumble from every stone, and to blame all of creation if a cup of coffee displeases the tongue. These preemptive tastes will always skew the looking glass and bend the reflections of what we see. We are so loaded with ready-to-fire reactions at every turn that there is no telling what these warped images will make us do.
The lens is unpolished and the sights are blurry, with conditions ripe for a panorama of silly mistakes. Men live out their entire careers in this bizarre state and somehow expect it to one day lead to deep, calm waters. As if nature is amiss, men are clear, and the magic, silver, bullet is simply a time-stroke away.