I remember a time when I used to care more.
About things, in general. I mean, I was a lot more naive and childish, but I was just... more passionate about things, you know?
I'm starting to care less and think more and it's nice just contemplating, but it's also really frightening.
Is this what growing up is like?
Because believing that learning more of the world is equivalent to caring less about it is kind of sad.
I mean, it's probably true, but it's also just as probable to be false.
The more you learn about how flimsy something is, the more likely you are to discard that passion, sure, but...
I want to believe.
I want to care.
The problem is probably that I also don't want the pain that comes with caring, but for the moment let's disregard that.
Pain is inevitable in a world like ours, in any world, I think.
But having passions is important, believing is important, having faith is important.
When scientists start saying that love could be stimulated through certain methods or that maternal instincts are just instruments of evolution, I want to chuck a sock at the television, or the newspaper.
Isn't there something beautiful, in believing in something foolhardy?
Intellectuals would probably disagree.
It's a good thing I've never claimed to be one, then.
I want to fly again.