I don't know if it is a result of reading too many books as a child, but I think somewhere between all the reading and the thinking, I became an idealist.
Even worse, a romantic one at that.
There isn't anything wrong with that, I suppose, but I find that my idealism gets in the way. Reality isn't as grim as I think it is, and my expectations of how I want life to turn out won't result in the way I hope it should.
I wonder if I keep searching for something that won't exist, I might miss out what it right in front of me.
Silly thoughts. Effects of education, I suppose.
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