tales from an incurable optimist

A true idealist is not someone who can’t see negativity and believes it doesn’t exist.
An idealist is someone who is internally affected more heavily by that negativity than most.

When a true idealist lets the staunch nature of reality set in, instead of accepting it, like the realist (who sees it, maybe even predicts it, and is able to move on with their day)

an idealist feels it
to their core
to the point of tears
to the point of deep, deep sadness.

And that sensitivity is an embarrassment.
That sensitivity is perceived by many as a weakness.

An idealist is not someone who doesn’t see the negative.
A true idealist is not ignorant.

An idealist sees the world in the most positive light and bases their actions on that view not necessarily because they believe it to be the reality,

but because they know if they let reality into their soul, the crippling sadness that will come over them will cease their will to live.

They see the world in a positive light because it’s the only way they can fight their extreme sensitivity to humans not acting kindly to one another.

Unwavering idealism does not spin from the idealist’s perceptions,
it spins from their emotions.
And from the need to protect their fragile hearts at all costs.

brooklyn 2016




when I die, I’d sooner go to middle earth

“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.”

-George RR Martin (fellow infp)