Young Idiot Is Genius

It is not often, certainly not often enough, that a piece of fiction allows me to so clearly cut through the billion uncertainties of life to see truth I never would have thought possible to know. Nor is it often that a book can make me feel so alive, so human and so aware, while striking me with the shocking notion that I understand a mere fraction of what there is to understand, like the Pale Blue Dot is a fraction of the universe. It’s with these thoughts, and many more, though so many less than is possible, that I finish The Fault In Our Stars by John Green, and with which I thank not only him, but the plentitude of other authors and artists who have instilled upon me this same indescribable feeling which with melancholy inevitability, time erases in a slow, painful fade. Even now I am unassailably extricated from the beautiful heart and mind of the artist, which they have very kindly and with much talent, allowed me to see, and into the vast darkness of a lonely mind.

Thank you, beyond words, for doing with such beauty that which makes us truly human; and for showing me a mind (and by extension, a world) outside myself.