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It seems to me that the more intelligent a person is the more cynical one’s view of the world becomes. It’s as though the more one learns about the world, about history and wars, people, cultures and art. The more one studies literature, and write essays; the more one simply knows, the less beauty one notices in the world, the less happiness one expects, the less one enjoys.
It seems like there’s a line, simple and easy to cross, invisible and forgettable when crossed. It’s as though you can’t have both. You have to make a choice, though it’s probably far too unconscious a choice for it to actually count as one; a choice between being optimistic and the ability to enjoy the simplest things in life, or to know the history of the Marxists theory and not get disappointed by your broken hopes and dashed expectations.

This is but just a thought, an observation of those I am acquainted with, and of my friends and so on, and one that made me pause and reconsider. Happiness and intelligence have always been the two things I wanted, the two constant through an ever changing collection of desires and believes. I wanted to be a teacher and a doctor, I wanted blueberry muffins every morning for a month and I wanted to pass my exams. I wanted to be rich and infamous, to travel the world and capture it through the lens of a camera, which soon changed to be through the ink of a pen, and scrolls of pencils. The conflict between the two was there for me, though unnoticed, because (while I love education) I was never smart enough for my own satisfaction, people never questioned my intelligence, many even praised my grades. But, I always wanted to know everything, everything about sport and history, about fashion, politics and the world, and when I didn’t know something it always seemed wrong, it took away from what I did know. I refused to accept that even the world had its own secrets.

Now I’ve come to be okay with not knowing everything, to know more than enough but to still find myself lost in conversations and not know what everything is, accepted that some things are not to be explained. It’s okay because I still enjoy movies, good and bad, just because I can without noticing everything wrong, I listen to pop-music without being offended, I can go through everyday expecting the news to broadcast a peace treaty between Israel and Palestine. I can enjoy a cheesy romantic book without thinking of anything beyond the cute scenes; I can make up my own colour reasons behind the unexplained.

So, I guess, the question is, what do you want? I pick to put more weight on simple pleasures than to know the world’s secrets… at least for now, most likely I’d take Faustus’ path if the choice presents itself.