I Used to Despise Idealists

—But Now I Know, Behind It All Lies Wounds and a Life Never Fully Seen—

I used to despise idealists.

Those who lived in their heads, walked with dreams, and refused to play by the brutal rules

of the real world. People who kept writing though no one read them, who kept creating

despite no applause, who kept speaking of “direction” and “meaning of life” while the rest of us were just trying to survive another day.

I thought they were naive. Too fragile to face the cold logic of reality. Too strange to be

taken seriously. They looked like people living in ivory towers, clinging to abstract values

while letting their bodies and time be devoured by struggle.

I used to mock them in silence. Even laughed at a friend who turned down a stable job,

saying he wanted to “protect his soul,” “reflect,” or “stay true to himself.”

But now, I feel ashamed. Because I know what it’s like to wake up and not know why. I

know how it feels to work in a job I don’t believe in—just to stay afloat. I know the fatigue of

walking home late at night with a buzzing mind and no one to talk to. I know the feeling of

running on empty, of living simply because I haven’t stopped breathing yet.

Gradually, I Began to Understand

That anger, that cynicism—it turned into silence. Because slowly, I began to see that those I

once called “naive” were actually trying to preserve the one thing they still had: their inner

self.

“And who could go on living, if they had to sacrifice themselves?” — Nietzsche

I remember asking my friend, “Why didn’t you take that job?”

He looked at me calmly and said, “I’m afraid that if I go into that system, I’ll lose myself.”

At the time, I sneered inwardly. But now, after years of grinding through life, I get it. He

wasn’t afraid of work—he was afraid of forgetting who he was.

I remember one night, sitting on the porch after work, cigarette in hand, too tired to do

anything but stare at the sky. That was the moment I realized: this isn’t living. This is just

surviving. I felt like a piece of driftwood, floating without direction.

And suddenly, I understood why I’d been so annoyed by idealists. They reminded me of the

part of myself I’d already abandoned.

Being a Candle in the Wind

I began to see them differently.

People who keep their tiny food stalls open even when customers are few. People who stay

in underpaid jobs not because they love it, but because it gives them a sliver of dignity.

People who post on YouTube though no one’s watching. Who livestream into the void. Who

writes poetry no one reads. Who teaches children in remote towns, even when society

doesn’t care. Who treat patients in conflict zones. Who still tries. Who still cares.

They are like little candles in the wind—fragile, but still lit.

From the outside, maybe it looks like a delusion. But from the inside, that’s what existence

is.

“To be human is to stand at the edge of an abyss and still take a step. Not because you believe there’s ground ahead—but because standing still changes nothing.”

That’s where I found something I hadn’t seen before: idealism isn’t the opposite of reality.

Sometimes, it’s born from being crushed by it. When the world gets too loud, too cruel, too

fast—some people choose to live by values, not numbers. Stillness, not noise.

Words I Once Mocked, Now I Mourn

Before I continue, allow me to write a short letter to someone I once loved (though she’ll never read it):

“Thank you for being there, love. Now I must walk

alone—through silence, through solitude. I don’t hate you, and

I won’t forget your kindness. But I’ve chosen to keep

moving—despite the emptiness that lingers.” (From Kamal to

Sarah: Rest in Peace)

Losing her didn’t take away the life I once imagined with her. In fact, from that loss, I began

to see clearly the kind of life I’ve always longed for.

She once said, after a night of shared intimacy, lying side by side:

“I want a simple life. To write novels. Keep a dog. Water the plants. Live somewhere quiet with someone I love.”

At the time, I said nothing. Inside, I laughed. Thought she was daydreaming.

Now, with distance, her words echo in my tired chest. Because the further I go, the more I

long for what once felt childish: a life that’s peaceful, honest, and doesn’t demand that I kill

part of myself just to stay alive.

After all this, I’ve come to understand: idealism doesn’t belong to a strange few—it lives in

anyone trying to survive without losing their soul.

We Don’t Need to Split the World

I no longer divide the world between idealists and materialists.

Because we all carry both. Even office workers can nurture a small flame of idealism over

morning coffee. Even artists can feel the sharp edge of economic pain.

“Each person brings their own subjectivity into their interaction with the world.”

And me—I’m still writing. Not for recognition, but because I know: if I stop, I’ll lose my soul.

Final Words: The Quietest Courage

So now, when I see someone who still dares to believe in dreams, who still writes though

unread, who still creates though unseen, who still smiles through exhaustion, who still

stands though the world is unfair—

I no longer judge them.

Because now I know: they’re not running from reality. They’re building one that doesn’t kill

them.

“Real humans may appear broken. But from the ruins, they create meaning no system can

offer.”

I know now—beneath all of it—there are wounds, and love, and failure, and longing for a

whole life.

Anyone who stands in the middle of that storm deserves to be called a fighter—not because

they win, but because they’re still here.

And if I’m still standing today, it’s because I choose to remain human—not perfect, but

present.

And that, I think, is the quietest kind of courage.