We seek the knowledge and the truth, hoping that they will bring us into a happier awareness. Where we ever got the idea that understanding could lead to contentment is a notion I’ll never quite grasp. There is bliss in not knowing, and an innocence that can, not wrongfully, be mistaken for happiness. Everyone says they would rather know the truth, no matter how difficult it may be to fathom and process, but I rarely find that to be true. It’s something they say to sound noble or enlightened, but it’s a fool’s wish.
When you ask me if I like your outfit, you are not asking for my honest opinion. You are asking me to echo the idea – your idea – that your outfit is fine. When I don’t do that, when I don’t conform to your pleasant expectations, you end up getting stung. It’s much easier, and better for all involved, to go along on your merry way, not inviting an opportunity for disagreement. I have learned not to voluntarily offer my opinion. I play the game myself, from both sides. It doesn’t matter much. Everyone gets burned.
I’ll hold onto happy ignorance, blissfully pulling the wool over my own eyes, if it means blunting the blow of a hurtful bit of truth. Like Blanche Dubois, I will clothe a naked light bulb in gauzy make-believe and magic, for the benefit of all involved. Like Norma Desmond, I will live in my own little cocoon of silky splendor, subsisting on delusional grandeur, happy and satisfied with the sandcastles of self-importance I’ve erected upon the shores of my mind.
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