Dear Diary,

I am bored to my wits today, but since I am expected to feign diligence in the workplace, I am trying my darndest to make my face look serious: I try to wrinkle my forehead, pound my fingers angrily on the keyboard keys, and create my own, impenetrable, serious Clyde bubble.

Yes Diary, day by day, I am slowly feeling my layers being uncovered; my once steady resoluteness being mellowed down by gradual and graduated submission.

And yes too, Diary, I am growing weary of trying to conform in an environment where I see not longevity nor personal, beneficial growth. But perhaps, this is the path which most people tread: we are thrust into the world as infants, oblivious of what lies ahead; we metamorphose into fiery, angsty adults, resolute and aggressive in trying to withstand the external pressures of societal confomity; and we end up like the rest of them, submissive, passive, and slave-driven by the world.

Once the optimistic infusion of being a change-bearer is slitted in the wrist, we end up as the very people that we once swore we would never become.

Yes Diary, it is a sad, sad world and we live sad, sad lives. And I can only offer my apologies to you at this point.

Woefully yours,

Clyde