one of the foremost goals of being young is trying to innovate. looking at the world asking pretty little questions about all its wrongs, and wondering about what the solutions are. and whether or not you, personally, could enact them.
one of the foremost goals of getting old is murdering this idealism and burying it with as much cynicism as you can shovel.
it seems sad i guess. to look at something we define as optimism decay slowly and quietly. it’s those little moments of daily cruelty. you know, when someone should’ve said hi to you, looked at you, and didn’t. or when your friends tell you they’ll join you somewhere, but don’t.
these blur together over time, with the details being forgotten, but the feeling harshly remembered. out of this wound comes not a scab, but a scar. and before you know it, the untouched skin of your youth becomes a grotesque display of social torture.
or does it.
i wouldn’t suggest embracing cynicism. it’s fun and all but if this blog is any proof, it doesn’t leave you much happiness.
however, optimism is not beautiful, just as cynicism is not ugly. the two in any form can produce good and bad results. i can at least say that cynicism has kept me from holding myself to massive standards. this, in turn, keeps me from measuring others too.
after all, have you ever seen tumblr, or the facebook page of any 14-25 year old? it’s filled with posts and reblogs of the way things should be, manifested in illustrations, tv shows, and quotes from (and about) dead people. this is often followed by harsh criticisms of how cruel people are, and how fucked the world is.
as a disclaimer, yeah, this is pretty bias posturing. but it’s my blog, and i’ll say what i want.
it’s not worth forcing the optimism and posting the pretty pictures with the pretty fonts if, at its core, is an ugly scathing criticism of society. it is okay to dislike this society. i don’t think anyone really does like it anyway. but it’s not okay to scrutinize it. because no one is an outsider.
even as much as i embrace being an observer and a part from the crowd, i’m aware that i’ve done my share of fucking this culture up. that self-awareness. i think this is what’s missing from people my age right now. and why i embrace losing any notion of changing the world kony-style. because it’s not the world you have to change. it’s you.
you have to stop being an asshole.
There are hints. Whispers of harmony between people, through the cracks of awkward bus rides and shit retail experiences. They come through in the form of surprisingly delightful conversations, or a compassionate New Yorker providing directions. It would appear, despite our greatest efforts to maintain cynicism, that there is a subtle sense of love between us.
But what is cracked? If there is a crack, there is a flawed infrastructure. What is it?
It is the ruse. The most clever ruse. That life is a process of innumerable toils, sufficing only with calculable riches. That it is a game of effort and reward, and we must reinforce it.
Unfortunately, I can’t check the veracity of my words. What I can attest to is that I have shortcomings that I insist on compensating for. That every action of mine is a roundabout apology for how much of an asshole I am.
Because this is the case, even my opinions, as correct as I think they are, are only so because if they were true, they would serve to make only my life better. In short, my scrutiny exists solely to serve myself.
And yes, I do think we all do this. Every day.
Perhaps that is the most objective truth in life; our conclusions about it will always be tailored solely for us to appreciate. Maybe life’s objective mysteries are unsolvable, because our egos won’t allow solving.
But it’s much more fun when I ignore that.
What horrors lie between wants and needs. An eroded chasm in rationality, irrigated by subjective desire, and thrust by homogenized standards. This bitter little river cuts quietly into the basis of understanding, beginning as a trickle in the form of parental advisories and awkward social interactions, like that time you made the worst joke ever in class, and you couldn’t have possibly felt like a bigger twat.
This trickle gradually severs itself a course, creating the widths required to distort reality, and the depth it needs to permanently entrench itself. A stable, coursing body of biases, precipitated by an ocean of social conditioning, and whatever nasty moments in which your parents forgot to play their part.
This is an overly extravagant metaphor to say you’re an asshole, and it’s not you’re fault.
But fitting never the less; peer into a river, and you’ll find your own reflection. The eclectic experiences of my psychology have provided me with a penchant for presumption, and a craving for attention. Much like those I despise; anyone who acts without understanding is a loser in my eyes, and much the same to anyone who is a try-hard.
And yet, I am the most pretentious approval-seeker I know.
I don’t like my reflection. But then again, who earnestly does? The amount of meticulous crafting required to raise a person who is utterly without insecurities is unfathomable. And really, sounds boring as shit. So it’s almost standard that every person come with their own set of “I hates” and “I don’ts”.
It’s at that point I kind of realized how to settle. That I am inherently laden with ugly traits. And that those traits are only ugly in contrast to the good. That in order to be who I am, I require all my greatness, and all my infamy. That chasm, cutting so profoundly in the depths of my objective rationality, is a chasm that standardizes my own glory. I am flawed. I am incorrect. I am irrational. I am overexcited. I am a twat. I am me.
I am realizing Majorska is practically rubbing alcohol.