The trouble with imagination is that it sets you up for disappointment. When I was a young boy I watched movies and read comic books and played video games - let's be honest, much like I do now - and I dreamed of a future where super powers and flying cars and time-traveling to the distant future and everything you could dream of were not only possible, but inevitable. Imagination was my drug of choice, back when drugs were something only heard about in terrible PSAs shown in between hopefully less-terrible cartoon shows. Eventually reality kicks in, you realize you're not going to be Spider-Man when you grow up, you find you're able to enjoy life nonetheless. I'm not complaining about this, it's just the way of life. When faced with the immovable object that is reality, some choose to give up their imagination, and others just find a new outlet for it. I went the latter way (even if it's an outlet I don't use enough).
I've been bitter and jaded and angsty. I've hated the world and most of the people on it. I've believed that reality is a terrible place to live, that there's no hope for humanity, that we're all doomed. (To be fair, I was a teenager, I grew up and I got over it.)
But really... it's a pretty amazing time to be alive, isn't it? The world's a messed-up place, there's a lot of trouble in desperate need of fixing, but something about me keeps focusing on the potential. The thing about potential is that it usually goes unrealized, but it's there, and god damn, I think we can make something of it if we try hard enough. Everything can be awesome.
I don't know when it happened, but I've been infected with optimism. Even at times when by any measure I should be fueled by cynicism, I can't help but feel a little burning sliver of hope deep down. But the question is, is that real, or am I still just that kid with his head in the clouds, believing in the impossible?