Idealism needs to be fueled by passion

Idealism needs to be fueled by passion, and compassion drains one of all energy. I wonder how the optimism of romantics survives the despair that darkens silent moments. Uncertainty runs cold and deep, and no matter how cherished the nostalgia, some scars never heal. Time is a cruel companion. Its bitterness is as intense as the black of one’s own shadow. It crawls with the soul always like a faithful sorrow, faithful as a friend, whose words are bitter yet true.

It was always hard to accept reality but now the refuge of denial has lost its charm. I wish I kept my haven intact, I wish I only worshipped my refuge as a sacred idol, an idol always to be sanctified but never embraced.

Valued dreams are like silence. They break once worded. And dreams, once broken, shatter. New dreams are a possibility for some but who can mend broken hearts, when the wounds run deeper than the hope of life and even the instinct of survival.

why do i feel the way i do?

I feel the way I do because this is how I am. What makes me low today is externally triggered only to the extent to which my intrinsic sensitivity embraces it. My disillusionment is as much a consequence of naive idealism as exposure to bitter reality. My discontent arises from my expectations to an equal degree as this world's inability to provide what I yearn. My alienation towards the world I inhabit is an indication of both my resistance towards the external and others' limitations regarding an understanding of myself.

It is neither the self nor the other whom I can solely indict with my misery. The onus of my assumed anguish lands upon both my within and the external.

No matter how much I try to break away from the invisible chains of the norms that restrict me, I always feel more constrained. On the contrary not the will of this entire universe can release me from where I imprison myself (under the clouds of despair).