What stole the joy you must have felt, fleetingly, as a child that beheld the world with fresh eyes, full of wonder?

Did you imagine yourself then, as your are now, hunched over a glowing rectangle. Demanding imperiously that the world share your contempt for the sublime. Share your jaundiced view of those that pour the whole of themselves into the act of creation, so that everyone might once again be graced with wonder anew.

I hope you can find a work of art that breaks you free of your resentment.

Thank you for brightening my morning with a brief moment of romantic idealism in a black ocean of cynicism

Love your comment.

I took the liberty of pasting it to chatgpt and asked it to write another paragraph in the same style:

Perhaps it is easier to sneer than to feel, to dull the edges of awe before it dares to wound you with longing. Cynicism is a tidy shelter: no drafts of hope, no risk of being moved. But it is also a small room, airless, where nothing grows. Somewhere beyond that glowing rectangle, the world is still doing its reckless, generous thing—colors insisting on being seen, sounds reaching out without permission, hands shaping meaning out of nothing. You could meet it again, if you chose, not as a judge but as a witness, and remember that wonder is not naïveté. It is courage, practiced quietly.