EFML: On disillusionment and outgrowing things
I woke up this morning to a dozen notifications that I swiped away without even a second's remorse, till I got to a post notification from a friend's blog. I love reading in the morning(in fact, at all hours:P) and this being a Sunday, I could actually afford to laze around in bed reading. I headed over to the post in question: Fall from the pedestal. It was wonderfully written, and so very relatable. In no later than two minutes, I was sure that I would be retelling this from my own perspective. For what it's worth, here goes! :)
For those of you who haven't read the hyperlinked article(although I'd suggest you should), Dragon Rider outlines the shock,irritation and sorrow at outgrowing the books of her childhood. She talks about years spent in veneration of those characters and their worlds, and finding out suddenly that they weren't all so great. What did I like in them? Why did I spend hundreds of hours reading these? she asks. Now, being a voracious reader myself, I can totally relate to this, although I actually haven't experienced it--over the years, I've only moved from one book to another, and I've almost never looked back at a book of the past.
Somewhere this year though, I had a similar moment--what you could call an existential crisis for a bookworm:P. I have read around a 1000 books over my quarter century of existence--murder mysteries, sci-fi, courtroom novels, medical thrillers, even the occasional romantic novel--and all of them fall under the umbrella of fiction. I had around 30 unread books lying on my desk since December. Me from a year ago would have devoured them in a month. Somehow, the present me did not feel like. I read a few of them, with a reluctance that was very uncharacteristic of me. Then one day, I had this disastrous epiphany: What did I get from these books? Why did I spend thousands of hours reading mindless drivel? Anyone who kneels at the altar of books will flinch at this harsh description of mine; God knows, I myself would have sometime back.
And yet, the more I probed into it, the more dismal the answers seemed. Did I enjoy reading? Yes,every single moment. Did I gain anything from it other than pleasure? Questionable. After you hit a certain threshold, the plot lines seem like a variation of the countless others you've read. And fiction, all said and done, is just a temporary escape into another world. A world inhabited by larger-than-life characters, and following the wonderfully imaginary, charmed lives they seem to lead. It is as good as chocolate, because they are both indulgences. No further meaning to it.
I hated myself for this realization and all that it came to represent. It was really hard to declare reading, the cornerstone of my life, as pointless because doing so would mean regretting a large part of my life and decisions. Why did everything have to be about 'meaning'? Why did I have to question what I would 'gain' from a book? Couldn't I simply continue to read, taking each book as just that, an experience that was worth it? How did I end up so cynical? Even as I cursed myself the zillionth time for overthinking, I knew that things would never be the same. I would still read the occasional work of fiction, but that dark cloud would always be atop me. The thought that it was pointless would still linger in the back of my mind. I was outgrowing something that has been a major part of my life. Something that has always defined me. It felt incredibly sad. Disillusionment.
I have chosen examples that are very niche, but you can very easily generalize this. Those friends of a decade ago who don't seem to get you at all now. Those activities you used to love being a part of, but only endure for the sake of old times now. Hobbies that seem to have lost their allure. Relatives whose company you once enjoyed and now cringe at. Anything that makes you wonder What did I see in this? These are things/people that you have outgrown. It feels sad, I agree, but it is a part of life.
Now, coming to the important part. What do you do after such realizations? Should you regret all that you once did and attempt to obliterate all traces of them? Should you accuse yourself of naivete and stupidity for loving the things that now seem lackluster? Is that ever fair to yourself? My answer would be a firm no. Consider this: When a child outgrows a toy/doll, it simply leaves it behind and moves on to another one, accepting that as naturally as life itself. But does it ever regret playing with it--all those happy times spent in its company, where the said toy was part of countless imaginary plot lines and scenarios--would the child rue all of those precious moments and cast upon them a shroud of remorse? No, never. Such a thing does not ever occur to a child, and it shouldn't occur to us either.
Outgrowing something is a part of growing up. But you shouldn't let it turn into full-fledged disillusionment; it is very depressing to contemplate the scheme of things when you take on that worldview. What you should do, in my humble opinion, is accept all that you were once upon a time, even if that doesn't resonate with who you are now. We outgrow ideas, opinions, things and even people. Sometimes ourselves. For instance, I have been writing on this blog for almost two years now. When I go back to the beginning and read, I mostly laugh or cringe or stare at it blankly. It is almost as if someone else has written those articles, and I seldom find myself agreeing with what I've said in them. That does not make them any less genuine--I was in those places once upon a time, and in those circumstances, everything I said was true. Just as I say that, my opinions of today are true for today. But they might change drastically over time, and to resist that is as pointless as resisting life itself. So I look past that urge of deleting all the articles that I don't stand for now and accept that they were once a part of me, and for that I will respect,cherish and even love them. No matter how difficult that is. I will not hate them, because to do so is to hate the very experiences that have shaped me into what I am today. We are a culmination of all our experiences and opinions, and each one, no matter how distant it seems now, is worth cherishing :)
And that, is my two cents on disillusionment!
For those of you who haven't read the hyperlinked article(although I'd suggest you should), Dragon Rider outlines the shock,irritation and sorrow at outgrowing the books of her childhood. She talks about years spent in veneration of those characters and their worlds, and finding out suddenly that they weren't all so great. What did I like in them? Why did I spend hundreds of hours reading these? she asks. Now, being a voracious reader myself, I can totally relate to this, although I actually haven't experienced it--over the years, I've only moved from one book to another, and I've almost never looked back at a book of the past.
Somewhere this year though, I had a similar moment--what you could call an existential crisis for a bookworm:P. I have read around a 1000 books over my quarter century of existence--murder mysteries, sci-fi, courtroom novels, medical thrillers, even the occasional romantic novel--and all of them fall under the umbrella of fiction. I had around 30 unread books lying on my desk since December. Me from a year ago would have devoured them in a month. Somehow, the present me did not feel like. I read a few of them, with a reluctance that was very uncharacteristic of me. Then one day, I had this disastrous epiphany: What did I get from these books? Why did I spend thousands of hours reading mindless drivel? Anyone who kneels at the altar of books will flinch at this harsh description of mine; God knows, I myself would have sometime back.
And yet, the more I probed into it, the more dismal the answers seemed. Did I enjoy reading? Yes,every single moment. Did I gain anything from it other than pleasure? Questionable. After you hit a certain threshold, the plot lines seem like a variation of the countless others you've read. And fiction, all said and done, is just a temporary escape into another world. A world inhabited by larger-than-life characters, and following the wonderfully imaginary, charmed lives they seem to lead. It is as good as chocolate, because they are both indulgences. No further meaning to it.
I hated myself for this realization and all that it came to represent. It was really hard to declare reading, the cornerstone of my life, as pointless because doing so would mean regretting a large part of my life and decisions. Why did everything have to be about 'meaning'? Why did I have to question what I would 'gain' from a book? Couldn't I simply continue to read, taking each book as just that, an experience that was worth it? How did I end up so cynical? Even as I cursed myself the zillionth time for overthinking, I knew that things would never be the same. I would still read the occasional work of fiction, but that dark cloud would always be atop me. The thought that it was pointless would still linger in the back of my mind. I was outgrowing something that has been a major part of my life. Something that has always defined me. It felt incredibly sad. Disillusionment.
I have chosen examples that are very niche, but you can very easily generalize this. Those friends of a decade ago who don't seem to get you at all now. Those activities you used to love being a part of, but only endure for the sake of old times now. Hobbies that seem to have lost their allure. Relatives whose company you once enjoyed and now cringe at. Anything that makes you wonder What did I see in this? These are things/people that you have outgrown. It feels sad, I agree, but it is a part of life.
Now, coming to the important part. What do you do after such realizations? Should you regret all that you once did and attempt to obliterate all traces of them? Should you accuse yourself of naivete and stupidity for loving the things that now seem lackluster? Is that ever fair to yourself? My answer would be a firm no. Consider this: When a child outgrows a toy/doll, it simply leaves it behind and moves on to another one, accepting that as naturally as life itself. But does it ever regret playing with it--all those happy times spent in its company, where the said toy was part of countless imaginary plot lines and scenarios--would the child rue all of those precious moments and cast upon them a shroud of remorse? No, never. Such a thing does not ever occur to a child, and it shouldn't occur to us either.
Outgrowing something is a part of growing up. But you shouldn't let it turn into full-fledged disillusionment; it is very depressing to contemplate the scheme of things when you take on that worldview. What you should do, in my humble opinion, is accept all that you were once upon a time, even if that doesn't resonate with who you are now. We outgrow ideas, opinions, things and even people. Sometimes ourselves. For instance, I have been writing on this blog for almost two years now. When I go back to the beginning and read, I mostly laugh or cringe or stare at it blankly. It is almost as if someone else has written those articles, and I seldom find myself agreeing with what I've said in them. That does not make them any less genuine--I was in those places once upon a time, and in those circumstances, everything I said was true. Just as I say that, my opinions of today are true for today. But they might change drastically over time, and to resist that is as pointless as resisting life itself. So I look past that urge of deleting all the articles that I don't stand for now and accept that they were once a part of me, and for that I will respect,cherish and even love them. No matter how difficult that is. I will not hate them, because to do so is to hate the very experiences that have shaped me into what I am today. We are a culmination of all our experiences and opinions, and each one, no matter how distant it seems now, is worth cherishing :)
And that, is my two cents on disillusionment!
Comments
Post a Comment