the weary one

the older i become, the more weary i've grown towards all the things that surround me. it is as if a lot of things have lost their luster, and not a great deal can still pique my interest.

i'm an idealist, a romantic. from the moment i opened my eyes to the world i've always looked upon its subjects with great enthusiasm and curiosity. there was a time when everything seemed so fresh and in the most cliched of manners, "wonderful". i believed in the impossible, and i believed in principles.

somewhere along the line i changed. i became a skeptic, i dreaded fighting for what i believed in because everything seemed like a lost cause. i became a coward and instead chose self-preservation in the form of retreating into a shell.

it is true that perhaps this is what the teachings of confucianism had to say about restraint, that if one practised self-restraint everything would appear clearer before one's eyes. being able to let go may be useful to some, but what of the fighter who's lost his spirit? or of the writer who's lost his muse?

i've only just finished reading capote's breakfast at tiffany's. part of me can't help but feel sorry for holly's series of misfortunes. another part of me fiercely admires her for tirelessly protecting what's hers. how does she do it?

i'm tired. all i can think about is how i've seen better days. now where do i go from here?

+listening to: better days by amos lee