A Simple Optimist

You are despair incarnate, I see that. You have a pain that no one understands. You are tortured and hurt. Pained by the times, so hurtful and cruel. Filled with righteous indignation. I understand.

And I? I am thoughtless and giddy. Unable to grasp the full spectrum of pain that afflicts you so much. I’m a child, aren’t I? A stupid, vapid child, incapable of feeling as you do.

You’re so much deeper than I am. So much more full of depth and passion.

Screw you.

You pessimist. Reveling in your lack of hope. Enjoying your pain. Masochistic freak. It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? Beautiful, the way you cultivate pain inside yourself, absolutely refusing to gain solace. An art, actually, and you the artist. An artist who manages to keep the darkest side of things in view, no matter what.

Go ahead. I don’t give a damn about you, because you want this. You relish the hurt. The mental anguish. So go ahead. Hurt yourself some more. Laugh at me derisively when I try to ease things. When I try to keep a positive outlook. When I’m being simplistically optimistic.


With all your intellect and cynicism, you poison yourself. By embracing your morbid hyper-sensitivity you do no good to others. You only hurt yourself.

You’re the one dying inside. And I’m living. So who’s smarter now? The self-proclaimed intellectual, who’s killing himself unconsciously? Or the simple optimist, who strives for life?

By rejecting a pitiless reality with a rosier one, I’m actually helping. I may not moan for others’ pain the way you do, but by God I’m better than you are. I’m whole.

So when the time comes for action, believe me, I’m the one who’ll help. Not you. Never you.

So take that fact, you pathetic excuse for a human being, and stuff that into your over-crowded brain.