The way out for idealism is either to die with flowers, or to walk into the lunatic asylum with absolute self-sufficiency and romantic elegance despite the oppression.
In the 21st century, reality is so calm that it requires less frequent confrontation with brutality. It is not the reality and material wealth itself that kills idealism, but the confrontation between the struggling but pretending to be elegant and romantic, and the spirit of striving for ideals but increasingly obvious vulgarity. The decadent cultural infiltration of capital drowns the virtues of civilization, but can no longer inspire the bustling regrets. Everyone watched the fire from the other side, thinking that what burned down was someone else's brick and tile mansion. We have been deprived of so much power, not just the power to resist intrusion. When the ethos of assets soaks up a life of poverty, people’s self-righteousness is exposed invisibly, and moral manipulation and aloof ugliness are sought after and rationalized, but the delicate, beautiful, and interconnected minds are not respected and empathized. I don't feel sorry for the individual. Civilization and ethics are at a time when no one cares. Instead, everyone dances around the bonfire to celebrate a better tomorrow.
I couldn't stand it, I couldn't stand it, I voluntarily abandoned myself in the past rituals of romantic beautification and respect for human nature. Any great pioneer of civilization would have pity on me to talk to me and save me from this fiery death. The phrase "whoever you are, i have always depended on the kindness of strangers." shocked me.
See, what a noble and unworldly man I thought I was. But in fact, I am so eager for myself or my lover to be a person who can have rich capital and strong resistance to foreign forces. Because I believe that these absolute powers he possesses can keep my romantic ideal intact and not have to be shattered in the struggle with material wealth. How absurd my words are. In popular discourse, the hopeless idealist resists all intrusions for the sake of the ideal. In my opinion, that's the stupider ideal. How skillful I am, I seek refuge willingly. For ideals, I am hopeless. Do I have to accept the judgment of others, be judged lunatic by normal standards, and join forces to be sent to a lunatic asylum? For the continuation of hope, there must be a renewed faith in death.
I am grateful for the greatness of language, but at this moment I realize that even if I make paper with mountains and rivers, I will not be able to explain the innumerable regrets. I still hold on to my hope, and my grief is equally surging.
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