The idealist lives in a room with blank walls not because there aren’t all types of visionary prints she could completely cover them in, but because her mind is like a projector. She doesn’t need anything, and of course she has wants but the way her thoughts so often clash, wall ornaments wouldn’t last. She sometimes leans into the walls with a pencil but only because she knows that she has an eraser within arms reach. She wants to be her own person, to manage her own dreams and dictate her own future but sometimes it seems so distant that she sits alone and discouraged. Her daydreams consume her and if there wasn’t a plant that sat perched upon the windowsill, she’d probably run out of air. The problem with being a prisoner to idealism is that you never actually feel like it is the philosophy that is imprisoning you, it is the way in which you envision things that sometimes requires so much of your attention that you fall victim to your own pursuits. 


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