Min good readeres (sorry for this sudden display of Chaucer-like speech, this is merely a pompous attempt to sound important), I thank all of you for patiently taking the time to read my loquacious entries and then making the effort to contribute meaningful or/and friendly comments. My taciturnity in real life is abundantly compensated by my gushing garrulousness on this blog. (But sometimes I tend to be excessively talkative when I'm hanging out with people I know well... That is why you really wouldn't want to get too close to me.) And I am often rewarded by the interaction I enjoy with intelligent readers of this blog - trust me, nothing delights a blogger more than this.
Today I checked my email inbox and found that I have received a new comment on this entry, in which I wrote about idealism (not in the philosophical sense... Now, don't come talking to me about Kant - this blog is solely meant for light reading). This anonymous author is more eloquent than I could ever aspire to be, and what he's written is a deeply poetic piece of prose in itself. So it gives me great pleasure to share his comment here:
Dear Anonymous, whoever you are, you should seriously consider keeping a blog yourself. Allow more people to read your lovely words!
Being an idealist is tiring. The idealist, if he fails, does so most devastatingly to himself. He had forgone reason and self-interest for an artificial naiveness. He had suspended himself as a non-object while placing others on the altar. He embarked on a grand plan, with no insurance, because he believes it is worth sacrificing for.
The idealist will be worn down; he is only human. When tested by betrayals, cynicism, non-reciprocation and perhaps, stupidity to comprehend his intentions, time and again for countless days and months and years, he realises he has fought for the good of people, in the name of a better world, who now disgust him by their brutality towards his idealism. He has given all in return for mockery, contempt, and self-deprivation.
The idealist is bitter; he is angry; he hates. He wants to reciprocate that done to him in revenge. He is thus tempted by cynicism as well, and would join the opposition he so detested. He would hate himself, but he hates the ungrateful more. He would take his revenge by becoming one of them.
But perhaps this is not what he wants, he reasons with himself. He is lost; he is confused. His dream has shattered and there is nothing breaking the free fall. Perhaps...perhaps he says, he will just return to former self. All will be forgiven, but the dream can carry on no longer.
It is not in comfort that he does this. He sees himself staring back at him - the two selves witnessing each other distinctly for the first time. They are not angry with each other; they merely exchange solemness and sadness. The two had became friends in their long partnership together. They were basically, one.
Now that long marriage has come to an end. It just isn't working out...One stands at the door way with his suitcase packed and ready. Both acknowledges its no one's fault. Both are tempted to take that last try at keeping the partnership: the dream after all rests on them staying committed. Perhaps...perhaps with that little more effort everything will turn out well...No. They know its time they walked separate paths. As one departs and walks away into the shadowy night, disappearing into the misty darkness, the other can only feel the tears, the first of many, drowning his heart, longing for warmth as the time stretches on and on into the bitter winters of the night.