I don’t know if it’s just because I’ve grown too content with my life or because I’ve outgrown drastic chemical imbalances or something, but lately I feel that disillusion can be entirely too self-indulgent. For every Zooey Glass, there are five hundred nameless, colorless characters, bitter nothings that are born of misdirected angst that some poor authors had no idea how to handle. These shaken children of war never really grew up; they just became bigger maladjusted crazies, except with titles and tweed overcoats and bigger vocabularies. Pure disillusion is of zero interest to me. I regard it with vigilance and fear. It may typically remain totally insipid, but it’s also the root of perhaps the most heinous crimes that humanity has ever known, as well as silent and personal tragedies, namely abounding wasted potential.
It’s much more useful, more powerful, to consciously reclaim the essence of the illusion or dream that still dances in innocence someplace in the back of a now burdened mind. To find love where you fully expected to find some sort of barren nothing. Recognizing a touch of beauty where the most hideous visions are a thicker than the London fog before weary quiet eyes. I worship that speck, that scrap, that sliver of beauty. In a mere handful of precious instances in your life, you’ll find it in people, regardless of their passing words of apparent indifference, the crowning armor of gentle souls, or apparent negligence, they cannot help but radiate love for wonderful people and for absolute pieces of shit. That, to me, is the most divine thing in the world.
I feel legitimately clinically crazy right now.
