It’s a matter of Illusions

Illusions are powerful things.  And none so more than the ones with create.  If we’re honest with ourselves (a concept to be avoided at all cost, it seems) we’d have to admit that illusions, regardless of the meaning behind them, are well-fabricated pieces of lies and delusion.  Despite knowing this, we find it hard to let them go.  We somehow deem them worthy of the sacrifice of a  firm grasp on reality.  Which brings me to this: Is there such a thing as being so wrong on paper that it becomes right in practice?  Illusions are bad.  They cloud your judgment and make you ache for what will never be.  But they also fuel hope in a way reality and sense can’t.  Can we find that elusive and precarious balance between illusion and plain delusion? 

No, we can’t. 

Or at least, I can’t.  Maybe there is a fine line between illusion and delusion, between right and wrong, but with my warped sense of reality, everything is a blended matter.  One big piece of complications. 

At first I thought, maybe it had to do with an inner, deep sense of dissatisfaction, or something as pathological as behavioural disorder.  But now I’m leaning toward pointing the finger at the most accusable, yet less condemnable culprit: human nature.

We were genetically engineered to suffer from illusion et delusion.  It’s woven in our DNA.  A belief becomes delusional when it meets some criteria, such as when it’s held with absolute conviction, when it can’t be changed by proof to the contrary or when it’s just patently untrue.  All clear signs of DENIAL.  And denial is an instinctive human reaction (or is it just me?). 

I guess delusion is some sort of false belief based on erroneous conjecture about surrounding reality and that despite what constitutes incontrovertible evidence to the contrary, is still firmly secured in one psyche.  It’s also not commonly shared by the delusional person’s culture or subculture, although I’m afraid some of the biggest delusions of all are on an universal level.   

You know what I think?  Love is textbook delusion.  Love is arbitral illusion.       

Of course, I could be absolutely wrong about this (and it’s probably the case) but I have a severe need of sleep and Caro is too tired herself to offer her expertise. 

The good (or worse, depending on whether you’re a ‘half-full or half-empty glass’ kind of person) thing about illusions is that you inevitably end up losing them.  Quite painfully, most of the time.  Like about two years ago, I really really liked this guy.  We spent most of our time together, and I ended up filled with expectations and I daresay, illusions….half-baked notions of happily ever after would be the correct term I guess.  I also had this really great friend, with whom I shared a lot of common traits, despite the short span of time we had known each other.  I introduced them one day and of course, in a cliché turnabout, the friend and I turned out to have the same taste in guys.  I’m not one to make big scenes and demand in a dramatic voice that she stays away from him and all that Jerry-Springer kind of things but even if I were, I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to do it because my great friend did everything behind my back.  She only came clean about it after the guy told me, which sort of negates the karma points she’d earned by finally telling me the truth.  But being the pushover… I mean the good friend that I am, I gave them my blessing but lost some of my illusions that night.  Looking back on it, it was a great lesson about trust and loyalty and all that I took for granted. 

Did I mention they broke up soon after that?  But of course, you knew it.  It’s textbook relationship matter.      

So here’s the verdict: I love my illusions.  But I can’t wait for the day I’ll no longer need them.  

In Which Mag Gets It Right, But Only After Getting It Terribly Wrong.

I woke up one day and had a massive panic attack because I couldn’t write anymore.  A year and a half of immersing myself into physics, chemistry, biology and other entirely too rational sciences had finally taken its toll.  Everything I wrote either sucked or sounded like a science report.  I had become someone else, too mature and too reasonable for me to like myself, or for myself to like me.  And before anyone objects, yes, I am taking far more liberties with drama for drama’s sake than I should.  Take it as an early disclaimer that I make big deals out of small things, I never say the right things at the right time and that odd things lay ahead.  Anyway, as I was saying, things were becoming too serious and so, in an wicked reverse-psychology thing, I decided the best remedy was to tackle the most serious thing of all: the meaning of life.  That’s a satisfying ambition: Attempt to find the meaning of life, and fail at it.   

All joking aside, this project was born before I even knew something was happening and has since developed a mind of its own, mercilessly thwarting any attempts at letting reality and sanity come in the way of Life.  It started quite innocently, actually.  Something happened and I didn’t want it to become another fleeting moment.  I needed tangible proof that something as wonderful and as cherished had occurred.  That’s when I decided that…  I’d like to prove that my painful time as an anthropology/psychology student wasn’t just a waste of time and that it gave me a better understanding of human nature.  It’s a rather pretentious ambition but here it is: I hereby auto proclaim myself social/love anthropologist.