I, rather, want a different future, a future that merges both my current and my dreams future. My regret lies in my incompetence to follow my own plans. If I did follow what I set out to do, no matter the result, I'll be satisfied, for I have truly given it my best. As it turns out, my worst enemy is myself.
What we all deeply want from blogging intercourse is an uncensored glimpse of what the brief waking dream called life looks like through the eyes of another person, and reassurance that we are not entirely alone with all that feels most bewildering, peculiar, and intense within us.
Regret for Knowledge
For at least once, we had all wished to turn back time; to redo a blunder, to save ourselves an embarrassment, to save a loved one. We wanted to make our futures better by changing the past.
Optimism
"Be Optimistic" is the worst motto ever. It hides the truth in a deceptive sheath. It values belief over action.
I've heard an old adage, that when sailing, "The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails".
In the previous quote, I considered pessimists to be inferior to optimists, since optimists, albeit effectively doing nothing, has a good spirit.
Yet, recent events have shown light on the dark underbelly of my own optimism, revealing a sour truth:
When it comes to knowledge,
The Realistic scholar knows what they know
The Pessimistic scholar doesn't know that they know
The Optimistic scholar doesn't know that they don't know
Thus, Optimists are masters of self-deception.
And that frightens me greatly.
Nostalgia
Nostalgia disperses like a droplet of watercolor, seeping effortlessly into the canvas of rumination. It colors your memories with hues of time, overlaying scenes from a long-lost past with shades of sepia and dusk-like gold.
It happened instantly. One night, as my family gathered for dinner, my father decided to sell my childhood home. Properties, like ruins, are places where memories gather like dust. Within seconds, memories from years ago were fetched, propelling me back into moments of joy and sadness. I saw my childhood neighbors, some of which my best friends, and the times we had together, waltzing amidst an air of pure joy and freedom. Memories like those I couldn't let go.
These treasured recollections lie unsullied in a mythical niche, providing transient escapes from the calamities of existence. Yet, when presented with the future, we often fall back into the comfort of the past—a quagmire that maroon your spirit within tides of faded glory. Perhaps it's humanity's great frailty—we prefer past happiness to future uncertainty.
As if orchestrated to the pitch of my grief, an onslaught of fear swept through, a fear that all too soon the time will come when I must bid farewell, to an era of innocence in which I no longer existed. It bitters to gaze upon events that cannot be changed—an embitterment that besmears, at the heart of my childhood carefree jubilation, a stain of regret darkened by a perpetual sense of loss.
But those drunk on lost glory become mindless fools; Only by releasing phantoms of memories they hold so dearly could they step boldly back into reality and find salvation. If faltered, they fade into their past, adrift at the mercy of history's restless tides.
So here, I raise my glass, to my past for its occurrence, to memories from whose fount I drink to rejuvenate, to outbreaks of sentiment that tether my humanity, and to bid farewell to oceans of antiquated history in pursuit of new memories dawning at horizon's brink.
It happened instantly. One night, as my family gathered for dinner, my father decided to sell my childhood home. Properties, like ruins, are places where memories gather like dust. Within seconds, memories from years ago were fetched, propelling me back into moments of joy and sadness. I saw my childhood neighbors, some of which my best friends, and the times we had together, waltzing amidst an air of pure joy and freedom. Memories like those I couldn't let go.
These treasured recollections lie unsullied in a mythical niche, providing transient escapes from the calamities of existence. Yet, when presented with the future, we often fall back into the comfort of the past—a quagmire that maroon your spirit within tides of faded glory. Perhaps it's humanity's great frailty—we prefer past happiness to future uncertainty.
As if orchestrated to the pitch of my grief, an onslaught of fear swept through, a fear that all too soon the time will come when I must bid farewell, to an era of innocence in which I no longer existed. It bitters to gaze upon events that cannot be changed—an embitterment that besmears, at the heart of my childhood carefree jubilation, a stain of regret darkened by a perpetual sense of loss.
But those drunk on lost glory become mindless fools; Only by releasing phantoms of memories they hold so dearly could they step boldly back into reality and find salvation. If faltered, they fade into their past, adrift at the mercy of history's restless tides.
So here, I raise my glass, to my past for its occurrence, to memories from whose fount I drink to rejuvenate, to outbreaks of sentiment that tether my humanity, and to bid farewell to oceans of antiquated history in pursuit of new memories dawning at horizon's brink.
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