Sometimes I succumb to misanthropy, a negative view of humans and human endeavor. Part of this has to do with my religious upbringing where this type of thinking is prevalent. And granted, currently, it’s because I read the news.
A therapist in the past told me that humans tend to give more value to negative thoughts, they outweigh positive thoughts. Taking this into consideration, I realize that sometimes I forget what makes humans great. Their capacity for self-sacrifice, their endless curiosity, their persistence in the face of death. By this, I mean that humans know their lives are finite yet they carry on; sometimes with such dignity that I am genuinely in awe.
Another thing I find helpful when I am plagued by this misanthropy is to simply read a good book. Writing shows what the human mind is capable of. Lately, I’ve taken a liking to Anaïs Nin, a remarkable woman and a remarkable thinker. Literature gives me faith in the human intellect and for this I am eternally grateful. Often writers are wounded souls, and from these wounds, beauty is born.