How To Stop Idealising People


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If you’re a dreamer, chances are you idealize people. It’s wired in our natures. We live in a world of imagination and fantasy, and we can’t help but superimpose our glorious visions of perfection upon those around us.

This can sometimes cloud our judgment to an unhealthy extent. It’s a good thing to see the silver lining threaded through the soul of every human being, but we have to understand that not everyone is a marble statue of wonder. Often, upon closer inspection, we find cracks feathering through the structure of our idols, and the weathering of age upon their visages.

But disillusionment is not the only ramification of idealizing people. Idealizing is a veneer of pretty glitter. It distorts your vision. You see a goddess instead of a woman. You see a superhero rather than a man. And by doing so, you prevent yourself from truly getting to know other human beings.

I recall idealizing a boy in primary school to such an extent that I could not even speak to him, for fear of shattering the illusion. I had also blown out of proportion his good qualities, and made myself feel astronomically inferior. I regret that. Maybe I could have got to know a really friendly guy, but my fantasy-loving brain got carried away, and left me with only an fragmented illusion.

So, what can you do to fix this?

It’s hard to rewire our thoughts, especially since we live in a society where celebrity worship is, well, celebrated. People faint upon meeting their favourite actresses or getting their book signed from a famous author. This societal glorification, a large-scale projection of idealization, almost seems to tell us that human worship is okay.

Sure, you can love people for their public image and their work. But what you have to realise is that everyone is human. I mean it. Human. Raw. Sometimes ugly, sometimes beautiful.

The only way to stop idealizing the people you currently worship is to talk to them and get to know them. However, if the wall of illusion is already built, and you can’t stand tearing it down, you can prevent it happening in the future by changing your mindset.


By keeping in touch with your inner humanity. Now, this doesn’t mean feeling compassion for the creatures of this world – you have enough of that. It means seeing humans for what they truly are. They are not deities. They are just like you. No, seriously. Think about it. They are just like you. Sure, give or take some differences in terms of talent, money and looks, but, in the end, they’re human. We all cry. We all eat. We all hate. We all love. We are united by our common humanity. We all have horrible I-want-to-die days and blissful life-might-be-okay-after-all days. Yes. Everyone. That cute girl that sits behind you in class. Your favourite pop star. The president.

All I’m saying is, dear dreamers, that we’ve got to be careful and not create a land of jewel-soul beings of unparalleled perfection in which we’re the only sand-bag rag doll. It’s no good for forming true relationships, and no good for you, either, because you’ll just get up feeling terribly inferior.

And, hey, if you’re really struggling with pulling away the veil of moonbeams, just imagine the object of your idealization sitting on the toilet and pooping. And maybe not even with grace. Just the way you do it, slouched down on the toilet seat, playing on your phone. It’s a bit unsightly, but it works. That’s a sure fire way to drag the cloud down to earth.

But in all other respects of your life…

Keep dreaming.





Sometimes, it really hurts to exist.

Ouch. It pricks you, you see. You walk outside, and the world stabs you from all directions.

The noise. The colours. The people. Each a little prick, until you’re spurting blood like a walking, bullet-holed barrel. Ow.

Every look, every glance, a dagger of potential sharpness.

It hurts. It hurts. I bleed, but silently, and the blood is invisible, evanescent as air. My smile is my Band-Aid. It covers up everything I don’t want people to see.

Anxiety floods my system like poison every time I face the world. It hurts.

I want to be alone. I crave it. I want to live in my mind, in shadows, beneath rocks, in wells, the underbellies of clouds, in tree houses, suspended on a spider web, silent, glittering, watching, unseen.

As a child, I never wanted to live in a luxury mansion, decked out with state-of-the-art facilities and a big, gleaming artificial pool.

I dreamed of living in a library.

Just a library.

A quiet, ancient, wooden room, filled with shelves upon shelves of books. Their spines would be reds, greens and blues, and traced in gilt. There would be a chair, a casement window, a fireplace, and I would sit in that armchair and read and write in leather bound book until the sun went down.

It would be so quiet. So lovely and quiet. Only the expectant exhale of the books, those marvelous books, waiting to be read, for them to draw pictures in my mind, bleed ink into my veins. I wanted to become the books. I wanted to tease out my soul like an elastic DNA strand, twine it with the words, the pages, and be one with the stories.

Perhaps there would be a cat. I think I’d like that. A nice, tabby cat. It would curl up on my lap and purr.

And so it would be. Day after day, year after year. Watching the grass and trees fade from green to autumnal colours, to shed their leafy heads, watch snowflakes spin past my window. That is my dream. That is my haven. That is what I would wish for, if a genie were ever to pirouette out of the mouth of a bottle and grant me the fabled three wishes.

There would be no pain there. Just stories, and warmth. Nature and animals. Peace. Wonder. Words. Art. Beauty.

I want it so badly I could scream. But I know no-one would care even if I yelled my head off. Because we suffer alone. So, in the meantime, I nurse my wounds. I cry my silent tears. I rip off my face in private. I tease out my blood vessels and try to braid them into a flesh rope that can help me escape my tower. In the meantime, all I say, scream, think or feel is…


It’s Hard Being An INFP Part 2


First off, I’d just like to say to you, whoever you are, reading this, especially if you’ve commented on my humble little blog where I splash my thoughts and dreams, that I love you. I don’t have much support in my life at the moment, emotionally and financially. Money has been very tight, and I tend to get very stressed about that. I don’t have any friends in real life who truly can understand, nor any family members. But through reading your comments, connecting with people who have read my blog, and just even thinking about other dreamers reading my blog and feeling a warmth flare in their souls, gives me so much strength. You can’t imagine. I wake up, find a sweet, sweet comment, and go around with a smile in my heart. It’s beautiful and wonderful, so thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you. Though I’ve never met you, you might as well be my family. I think all dreamers are related, metaphysically. A grand, family tree of sensitive, introverted people floating in the ether.

This is going to be another post dedicated to all the INFPs of the world. I wrote one previously which many INFPs connected with, so I decided to write another. Frankly, I can always write more about being an INFP. There’s so much…I guess you could say my soul is forever in discordance with the world we live in, and all these little conflicts create lots of writing material.

I do apologise if my writing is pitiful in this post. I’m not trying to make it sound nice, but to get my point across. So, hello, fellow dreamer. I understand you. I really do. Perhaps some of the things I write you won’t be able to relate to, but that’s fine. If even one person can relate, I’m happy. This is going to be an outpouring of my soul, in this moment. From the soul of an INFP. Imagine it like a telepathic conversation. And if you’re ever lonely, disenfranchised, depressed, when you get into one of those moments when you feel so low because the world doesn’t appreciate your eccentric, creative beauty, and only wants to snuff out your delicate soul, then I hope you can come back to this, and imagine it’s me talking to you, and at the end, giving you a big hug. I know how it is. I know how it is like to be you. I really, really do. I’m not trying to sound patronizing. Sure, I don’t know each of your individual experiences, but I’ve had those strange thoughts, felt that social rejection, felt out of place, out of balance, wishing to escape to a world of fluffy clouds and jeweled trees, somewhere safe and soft and warm and quiet and wonderful and filled with nature and magic and books. I KNOW. I really do.

I know that everything I write here will be meaningless, a sort of refined whining into the void. But I’m simply going to be here for you, for you to feel less alone. That is enough. This is simply a post of all you  dreamers, you fragile-skin and lotus-soul creatures, who see the walkways beneath this world and step on clouds to try and get closer to the heavens. This is the cybernetic equivalent of my finger reaching out to touch yours, the tips glowing, and both of us alive and warm and each other. As humans, in an incomprehensible world, living an even more absurd existence.

I am a natural loner. Though I’m sure not all INFPs are loners, I think we have a higher chance of being a loner than other types, with our introversion, propensity for creative endeavors that require hours of solitude. I am convinced that if I were never to see or make contact with another human being in person from today, provided I have an internet connection (so I can write on this blog and watch the movies I like – I’m looking at you, Spirited Away & Amelie), a steady stream of books, writing utensils, and a enough food, money, water, and facilities to be a healthy human being, even if it’s only a single room, I would be fine. More than fine. Happy. Much, much happier than I am now. If you’re a loner, you know that this kind of thinking is strange to the majority of people in this world, but that does not matter. You are you. they are them. That is all.

I haven’t disclosed my real age on this blog before, partly for privacy reasons, partly out of fear. But I think I’m going to now, just to be honest, just so you can get a clearer idea of who I am, and so other people in the world who are my age can feel less alone. Age is a relatable trait. I am sixteen years old. The reason I never disclosed my true age, sometimes even pretending I was in my twenties (I hope you can forgive me for that slight twisting of the truth, it is the only untruth I have ever written on this blog), was because I was so, so frightened of people not taking my concerns seriously, and putting down my personal problems, such as existential depression and distaste for this godforsaken world and its godforsaken people, to mere teenage angst. I was scared of having my concerns reduced to mere trifles to be patronized, because that is what has always happened throughout my life. I was the five year old kid who asked questions about death and made the adults uncomfortable. They patted me on the head and told me not to worry about things. I have been scared of that kind of fake, demeaning comfort ever since. So I really, really hope that this slight revelation will not lesson your opinion of me, dear dreamer. Age is of no consequence. My soul, as you can probably relate, feels as if it’s already lived many lifetimes, though perhaps that is just a romantic fancy of mine. Maybe.

All of life is a maybe, an uncertain question mark hovering in the aether, murky, an evanescent existence of no truth, no solidarity, no angles and curves but only blurred lines. This permanent fog is what we call life, and no matter how many times we glimpse bits of the big picture through parted wisps, we’ll never see it all. Do not try. I have tried. It only strains your eyes, and breaks your heart. Nietzsche said we were born into this world to suffer. As a dreamers, we have suffered for not being ignorant. For facing the harsher realities of existence. And we have been punished for seeing, not beyond the fog, but the fog itself.

I think, as a group, we are tired. I know I am. I do not mind social ostracism, for I have no desire to converse with my peers and teachers at school, any more than pigeon would with a peacock. I do not mean that I feel superior to them, but instead so markedly different that I might as well be a member of another species. However, one of the main reasons I am a loner, and despise socializing, is because it’s dull, and every single person around me, from my family, my teachers, my peers, are intolerably dull. I do not mean they are stupid. Some of them are probably more intelligent than I’ll ever be. I mean they do not see the fog, do not see life, and go about their ideas happy and ignorant, and I am like a woman who has seen death and come back half a corpse, unable to talk with the living. Some people, even very intelligent people, are so narrow-minded it makes me want to throw up when I interact with them, and hide out in a cavern beneath the seas, or hole myself up in a tree trunk in a dense rainforest.

I just thought of a good definition for us dreamers. It’s as if we were all born with a hole in our skull as a result of metaphysical trepanning, and now absorb far more wavelengths than the average teenager, or, should I saw, human being. Now I’m wondering whether disclosing my age was the right thing to do. I’m afraid of it tainting your view of my posts. I don’t know. I get scared a lot. Everything scares me, and everything makes me want to not be scared. Anyway. The extra wavelengths make us tired, for we cannot stop thinking, and thinking only leads to despair.

Do you find walking upon this earth painful? Existence hurts. I find it painful to live with other human beings, and I find it painful being the human being that I am. We dreamers are unappreciated. People cannot appreciate what they do not understand. A thousand thoughts on existence, mortality, truth, life and consciousness flutter like smoky birds across my brain every day. They peck at the inside of my skull. It’s so tiring, I’m tired, I’m tired. What are your greatest fears? As a dreamer, I live in fear of a lack of money, because gaining it isn’t that comes easily to me. I have to sacrifice bits of my soul and sanity to get money, and don’t like doing that. At all. Extroverting myself until I feel like I’m dying of fatigue, the flesh sagging from my bones. I don’t like that. So, I live in a fear of poverty, of an indigence which will make all art and philosophy meaningless, as survival always takes the front seat. I wish to amass the wealth needed to live the life I want, but I find all occupations, apart from being a writer or philosopher, odious, and society’s systems and institutions mindless and inane. High school causes me pain. I cannot relate to a single human being, and, walking through the labyrinth of corridors, my soul is dead and stale.

Other people always seem to have something that I lack. I don’t if it’s just because I have an inferiority complex, or if other INFPs can relate. Other people seem to possess this confidence, this surety about life, that I don’t have, and don’t think I could ever have. They walk through their lives with joy and poise, know their heart before they go to sleep and taste its juicy, coppery flavor when they wake up to perfume their thoughts, hopes and aspirations for the rest of the day. I feel more like an evolving Frankenstein, gangrenous limbs prolapsing and flopping, seams tearing loose like tiny screaming stitched mouths, new eyes and fingers and parts always being attached, a prototype in the working, never fully here, never complete, always changing and lacking and inadequate, a dead person animated with life rather than a proper human being.

Without a strong enough heart to guide the way, but a shriveled sac that sometimes flutters in a direction, depending on the wind, but mainly hangs, limp and deflated and unsure. Yeah. That’s the closet I can get to the experience. it’s a constant sense of insecurity and instability that makes life exhausting, forever teetering on ice shards.

Dear dreamer, I’m probably not making any sense. But other people just have this element of sanity, of rationality, that keeps them from slipping into an existential abyss, brain strands that keep them tethered to the rock of contentment, carefreeness and laughter. They don’t float towards the heavens, swirling aimlessly in the infinities, and feel a greater darkness bloom in their souls, a bee-buzz madness on their tongues.

Sorry if I jump from topic to topic. Just imagine it as a conversation with me. I wish I could give you a big hug, right now, dreamer, so we could both feel less alone, and slightly miserable. I’m happy being me, but I’m sad about how the world reacts to me, and tries to spit me out all the time. I’m not a cog, or a wheel, but a wacky metallic object that faintly resembles an alien creature with a thousand appendages. Don’t fit.

I’m wildly jealous of extroverted, steady people who seem to have their entire life and mindset together, when I’m a disintegrating star just trying to keep all of my radioactive bits together. If you’re an ENTJ reading this, though I can’t imagine how I would have held your interest up to this point, how do you do it? You are incomprehensible, so sure, so steady, so confident. But you don’t see. You don’t see the shadows, you don’t see life. Maybe that’s what I need, to survive in this society. To stop being me. To vanquish my crazy thoughts on reality and existence.

I can’t cope with reality. I don’t know how rational and logical people do it. I can’t. It just isn’t part of my DNA. I don’t know why INFPs are not extinct yet, because we are hit so hard by life, no matter how rich or poor. It’s a kind of struggle endemic to our personality. When people say phrases like ”suck it up”, or ”that’s life”, I want to cry. My heart hurts. Because I can’t just suck it up. I guess that makes me soft and weak, but so what. That’s who I am. I can’t suck up the harshness of reality, I want to love all human beings, help all human beings, I want to love and help and heal, but everyone’s so cold (oh gosh, I’m tearing up), the world is so cold, and everyone is so brutal and harsh and cruel, it’s so hard and cold. I have no place in it. Ouch. Ouch. My heart. My soul. It hurts. I want to love so much, to wipe away tears and hug people, revel in the human experience together, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Dreamers are sensitive. I will cry at the drop of a hat. I’m easily startled. When people scare me, my heart jerks for a good time afterwards. Loud noises make me wince and physically recoil. Everything hurts! A slight glance, a mean word, I can even read the thoughts of others sometimes, and they hurt me, because I know they are not kind. Only cruel. Mean. Racist. Personalitist. Hate you because you’re shy and introverted and not happy and extroverted. Sexist. Lookist (when people discriminate against ugly people, I just made it up, sorry if I make no sense in this post). It’s all this ugliness, I see all this ugliness, and it makes me want to throw up. I’m sick with the emotional toxins of the world, bloated with poison. Yuck. Get it out of my system. Please, please.

I honestly want to build a quiet community of dreamers somewhere on the edge of civilization, among nature. I want it so badly. Yearn. We could have these little huts, libraries inside the trunks of trees, pick wild fruit and nuts, hunt animals, drink fresh spring water, sing songs, love, have philosophical discussions around the fire. It’s unrealistic, I know, but I think it’s the only way I could feel like I’m truly living. I live in tiny unit now, with my mum, because of financial constraints, and there’s hardly a spot of green anywhere. It’s quite suffocating. I’m crying. That’s okay. I have you guys here. Or out there. You guys exist. Other people who feel this way exist. *sobs quietly with happiness*

Money. Jobs. Careers. Another painful topic. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Ahem. Excuse-me. It’s just that, well, the problem is we’re RIGHT BRAIN INTROVERTS. Do you see? They say that introverts can get good steady jobs and be happy, but it depends on the kind of introvert you are! Left brain introverts have a much easier time, loving jobs like accountancy, being doctors, scientists. Left brain people in general have it easier. Whereas right brain introverts, well, talented as we may be, the only job for us to become an artist. That is it. A writer, a painter. We’re practically doomed. We are the epitome of the starving artist. I know I can’t be anything else a writer. It’s stitched in my bones. And I will endure everything to write. I know I will. I know I can’t get any job to pay the bills apart from one on one tutoring, with children, because I love children. I think, if you’re a dreamer like me, that is, if you are a writer, to pay the bills, you should tutor one on one in English (which happens to be my favorite subject in school, though the teacher makes me soul recoil every time I see her, this cruelty shines behind her sweet face, but, let’s not complain about irrelevancies). It’s nearly the only option that can sort of engage our helping, literary and creative talents. That’s the best I’ve got so far.

Well. I’m not sure if this post made any sense. If you got anything from it, that’s great. If not, I’m sorry for wasting your time. I really am. I just don’t know anything. Everyone seems to think they know everything, that’s what gives them the confidence, but I have realizes that I truly know nothing, and this lack of ignorance makes me vulnerable. Stepping out into the world hurts me everyday. I’m only ever happy when I’m reading and writing.

I guess my soul is just kind of sore.

– Dreamerrambling