/lit/ - Literature

I’ll try not to be overly saccharine/sincere in this post, ironic considering what I’m trying to achieve.

In the past couple of months, I have begun to realize how much of my childhood innocence and my autism (in the informal, ‘chan culture’ sense) have depleted. This was caused, I think, a multitude of factors, most importantly my overconsumption of media and what most would consider ‘personal growth:’ less social apprehension, better interactions, etc. — completely shattering the solitude and pensiveness integral to my upbringing. A sort of weltschmerz has arisen because of this, rendering my enjoyment of art to a fraction of what it once was. I am no longer able to immerse or lose myself in a mystifying world completely alien to my own; I am no longer invoked with a blissful, exultant paroxysm after viewing a work ostensibly unrelated to me; my emotional strings are not pulled, nor are my intellectual foundations uprooted. And worst of all, possibly, is that I can now only view art only with its ‘real-world’ applications — how others may perceive it, how others may perceive me for liking/disliking it, and other dumb shit that is considered wholly extraneous and unnecessary. I think growing up as a maladjusted, gauche recluse forced me to find refuge in something, and I involuntarily chose art, making it my greatest escape. I once held a romantic and admittedly juvenile ideal of art, but it has since waned. Is this simply a part of maturing? Was I taking the wrong approach to art in the first place? How can I reclaim the exuberance I once felt? Am I just a retarded faggot?

Sorry for blogging so hard, but if I didn’t express this, I would have felt even more lost than I do now. I don’t know if any of you feel similar, or could even recommend some lit to help assuage this feel, but please share if you can. Thanks /lit/bros.

>>8126479
Pantheists pls go