Have you ever come to a point where you really don't have much to say, but you get going on in attempting to saying something anyway? Its perhaps like that there are a whole lot of things happening around; you have an opinion about the subject but just that you haven't got down to thinking much on it; or it hasn't made an impressionable impression on your mind -- yet perhaps the thing around, affects you a trifle and you just collect everyone's arguments and points of view and theories to present it as your own.
So you get down to writing about the subject that's been looping around and despite knowing that it really doesn't matter to you in such a major way, you write about it in a tone that perhaps indicates that you're at least, if not fully convinced, in being supportive to the either side of the situation -- which is more or else convenient to the dependability of time. When you end the whole thing: you feel happier as a person; someone whose done a good deed, despite not really caring about it, while being actually politically correct to everyone's nurtured sensibilities.
I guess a whole lot of people also end up living in this fashion of style. Of course, them taking their, this thoughtful side makes some people very angry, some happy -- and some who realise that their way of thinking actually marks no great trait of personality or of any great importance; but, yet they continue to groove with the flow of such stoic-minded lot and convince everyone of their own intelligence.
In retrospect, which ever stand I had taken, whenever the need had been in a time of complete desolation, it seemed that I inevitability; progressively, went on the side of winning; unfortunately, bearing the embarrassment of unpopularity. However, I always had this self-dependable suitcase of clarity that I would use to avoid the usual monotony of the always 'saying the right thing at the right time' -- this platitude ironically sounds as monotonous -- that I would in a repeatedly, in a manner oppose the popular flow of convictions. Regardless to how moral or immoral -- don't worry, their stand always seemed immoral -- the matter of the situation would turn to be.
Now it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that if you repeat certain actions in a particular manner, it turns around to be a habit you more or less can't seem to rid, or rid but with some change of an environment.
But thanks to being hit by a van of professionalism while crossing the road from school to college, that the years of this activity, well enough, fell away from me. Yet when I come to come to think of those times where I picked the art of a bit of depression and a bit of that Jim Morrison-style of thinking, filling poetry in my Accounts register, sniffing glue, spending hours in the library, doing a double somersault on the trampoline (gymnastics was bitterly considered by the general perception as an act of being a profound 'sissy'), walking alone most of the time, writing letters to no one, that I learnt an important lesson that carried me from an unfortunate stage of life to a shore of contentment -- which was the importance and reassurance of one self. That my self, in the most humiliating times crossed me through the real dark times of the tunnels, to the light. The light would often turn out to be a train that would be opposing me, and smack the hell out of me. (Hehe, it struck quite hard, but then at that time, that shit song 'I get knocked down but I get up again', would sound great as well, despite self teaching Blake and Eliot (thank you for correcting The Office Poet).
Anyway, before the some of you, who have linked me, change my name on your blogs, or on your minds, to Robin Sharma; I just want to tell you that this had been more a project of confessions rather than a 'Find yourself in 8 simple ways' sort of bullshit, which I wouldn't recommend to any of you anyway -- also knowing that you would never, despite my non-attempts do so.
I actually got down to, sadly but rightly, hating some of the people back then, who actually convinced me that there seemed no remedy to find, to their sheer miserable-selves, ways of existence and treating their personal boredom (rather inflicting) it on other people's time of evaluation. I still wouldn't kill them, but certainly would burn them if I got a chance.

'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players -- with a lost script.'