Critic

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My inner critic is a defense mechanism. Self-created. A shield to protect my optimism and hope and faith from a world that seems too cool to endure. Irony and insincerity rule the day, and made me ashamed of my own hopes–my own small voice.

Yet, the cruelty of the world is formed by a collection of inner critics–cynics, all fighting to “protect” ourselves. We mock those who dare to expose the soft underbelly of a nonsensical dream–those who are “off-beat” as a method of group control. “If I am not going to let my light shine, I will viciously attack anyone who dares operate from a place of freedom. If I can’t be different, you can’t be different either.” And, thus chastised by the group delusion, another poor soul adopts the mask of the cynic and trains their soft mouth into a sneer.

Yet the danger, the huge danger is that the mask is hard to remove. We start bringing our critical or cynical protection into areas that were formerly safe for us. Areas that were unpolluted. And suddenly the true self becomes harder to find. And the dreams seem more impossible than ever.

I am trying to be aware of the cynical voices in my life, including myself.

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