reflections from a hopeful monster //
November 5: It’s a chilly night in Toronto, but warm underground where I shuttle between city coordinates running errands, thinking about irony and trust and commitment. // It is a bizarre feeling. Blinding gratitude on a park bench in the cold of an unfamiliar city. I can’t see through the blur so well now. I feel a hollowing-out as I brim over. How is it that I feel empty. // I recently started reading a book by Jedediah Purdy that addresses the culture of irony that has become so definitive of our generation. He writes that “irony is powered by a suspicion that everything is derivative. It generates a way of passing judgement on what kinds of hopes the world will support.” Every single person I have taken the time to get to know harbours their own secluded bay of insecurity, staggering self-awareness and an almost paralyzing capacity for self criticism. To take ownership of our convictions, to be unabashed in our beliefs, can seem embarrassingly naive, and so we cling to our nonbelief with a vague but stubborn pride, which ultimately seems to become our own undoing. // I don’t know if it is possible to hold self-awareness and unguardedness simultaneously within ourselves, but I am trying earnestly to find a balance. We are all vessels bearing singular-universal dynamic systems of entropy, where the measures of our own internal disorder or progression towards equilibrium are vast, if not infinite. There is value in declaring the hopes that we carry and which we know to be fragile. Maybe it is our capacity for uncertainty that makes us human, but it is the tireless task of seeking hope, conviction and belief in something – in struggling to make reality intelligible – that renders this life meaningful.