More is Less (Or how wanting is confusing when you’re a young adult)

I think it is a shift worth noticing that as you grow older, you want less. You want less pain, less worries, less of this feeling of being the only one to feel so horrendously lost. But as a child, you had always wanted more. More sweets, more time being awake before going to bed, […]

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I think it is a shift worth noticing that as you grow older, you want less.

You want less pain, less worries, less of this feeling of being the only one to feel so horrendously lost.

But as a child, you had always wanted more. More sweets, more time being awake before going to bed, more tickles and more piggy-back rides.  More, more, more.

It reminds me of a child, a prince who lives in a faraway planet with his rose.

Dessine-moi un mouton // Draw me a sheep.” And then the one sheep wasn’t it. It wasn’t enough. And so, one more. And another. Until he had the one he wanted. I wonder what he would think sometimes, of the adults we have become.

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I have never been greedy for the world. Have never chased fame or money.  But now, I might think about wanting more. More happiness rather than less misery. More days out with friends in the place of less responsibility. If you think about it, to want less without also wanting more is the premise for a miserable life, the recipe for unwritten novels and untrodden paths. To want less without wanting more is to live off of a waning survival instinct which, like a blade, gets duller each time it is used.

Yeah, I think I cannot wait to crave Life again. And that’s already a good sign.


Listening to:

The Notebook

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You ever get one of these gifts that you know you will never be able to use? It’s like one of those things that are too beautiful, too pure to be dirtied by world-weary hands. No piece of my writing feels worthy enough to warrant spilling ink on this beauty. It would feel like using Excalibur to cut up potatoes.

…But I’ll end up having to use it one day. After all, if I’ve learned one thing from “Le Petit Prince”, it probably lies in this: “You’re beautiful, but you’re empty…One couldn’t die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she’s the one I’ve watered. Since she’s the one I put under glass, since she’s the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she’s the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she’s the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she’s my rose.”

It is the idea that something is precious not because it is perfect, but because it is yours, truly, in every sense of the word. So I’ll spill ink on these pages, it will probably smudge, too. I will write entire paragraphs and strike them out. I will probably doodle absent-mindedly over one of the pictures. One day a page might even get a little ripped up, and I’ll probably not be able to shelter it from the rain when I carry it with me. But then it’ll truly be mine. No one will have anything like it and in the world, there will exist only one of those.

…So much for a simple notebook.