I have developed a growing distaste for reality. A friend told me recently he believes in hope, but he also believes in reality. I do not like this reality he believes in if it stands somehow in opposition to hope. Though I suppose it’s an understandable misperception. Reality is what is here now or what has was here before. Hope is entirely about what has not yet happened. That is, you cannot hope your turkey sandwich is a ham sandwich if it is a turkey sandwich, though you might hope your turkey could become a ham sandwich through the miracle of an opened fridge. In this way, reality bores me. I can’t do much with it for it has already been done. Hope has always been more interesting, for it lights the inherent optimism of creation. Creativity is always a hopeful thing. It must be. What have we but hope for what does not exist, since we don’t have the thing itself?
And anyway, good luck getting ten people to agree on reality. We may all be willing to call a tree a tree (if we all speak English), but we will likely not be willing to agree it is the most beautiful tree in the park. Reality is forever torn apart by perception, life’s final arbiter.
All of which is a good thing. Who would want to be bound to a reality not their own? Even the most hardened realist, whatever he or she is, will admit that something new will come tomorrow, something born out of the unreadable fruit of the mind, something likely based on this supposed reality and yet ever so slightly beyond it. Hurrah for tomorrow. We cannot live for it, but it keeps us honest, keeps us from believing too firmly in today.
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