I sometimes confuse my ideals with the reality of living. They cloud my judgement often as I look for some way to paint the world with colors of betterment for all mankind. Until life shows me that I am a fool.

Ideals are the targets. Like perfection, they are never to be achieved, as perfection is the enemy of good. I’ve torn myself apart believing that I could reach perfect. I’ve destroyed good in favor of perfect, only to be left with the charred remains of life. I was left with crap.

Ideal is a worth-while pursuit, so long as I understand where the boundaries are, where I turn good into a rotting carcass full of puss… all in the name of the ideal.

Because I mark the ideal as equal to perfect. And it’s internal. My ideals are just that: mine. No one else’s. Yet I insisted that happiness for all would only be made were they to accept what I believed.

But I am wrong. Ideals are not reality. And though it might bring more pain, living in reality also has brought me more joy than I would have gotten otherwise.

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