Saturday, July 18, 2015
So, apparently, Atticus Finch is a racist.
Last night, I cruised through the city in a cab trying to decipher, for the millionth time, what this darkness that lurks inside is really about. For the longest time, I thought this is how people were. Now I know that that is not the case. It is not very common to be having an absolutely 'normal' or even 'good' time, and suddenly be hit by this sinister sense of darkness. I use the term darkness because I don't know how else to describe it. It is often just nothingness and hollowness, but many times, it feels like disappointed idealism. The world disappoints me in many ways, but more importantly, I disappoint myself every single day. I think, perhaps if I could come to terms with the 'grey' nature of existence, I'd be more at peace. I am still able to love people with their flaws, but may be that love would be more 'complete'. May be I'd be able to make peace with the fact that Atticus was not strong enough to resist social conditioning, and neither am I. Or may be, this is how I'd go through life, never fully accepting myself or loving myself, because isn't that how I have always been?