I cannot relate to optimism.
In fact, I find it to be a tiresome characteristic. So much so that I catch myself rolling my eyes at anything that isn’t drenched in misery or cynicism, awaiting (in gleeful schadenfreude) the moment that it is engulfed in an inevitable wave of wretchedness. I do not hate happiness, I worship the sun, but I do despair having it thrown about carelessly like a cheap bag of confetti! I have a strong disregard and mistrust for anything that is plain and transparent, which is why I cannot stand bright colors and general cuteness. This all comes to mind as I look through some of the pictures I took at the Murakami exhibition I visited at the beginning of the summer. You could probably guess that I did not favor it. To be frank, I found it to be sickening in its overwhelming optimism and could find neither point nor aesthetic pleasure in any of it. And once I found out that this so-called art had been regurgitated by a factory in Japan my dislike for it amplified, for if there is anything more distasteful than forced optimism it is the commodification of forced optimism.
Naiveté and hopefulness are inherent characteristics of youth. I suppose they never took the time to embed themselves in me. In my fantasies I find myself leaning towards melancholic, almost macabre, scenarios. Even in declarations of love and happiness I find myself peeking towards the wonderful tragedies that will be left in their wake. I am not an unhappy person, I must reassert, but perhaps more sensitive to the ubiquitous anguish of the human condition.
Now excuse me while I delete these ghastly photos.