I was once upon a time (yes, I just said 'once upon a time') proud to call myself a cynic. I would turn my proud cynical nose up at the optimists (the majority only briefly visiting the disposition) and laugh at their naïveté, mocking. Cynicism was a dose of reality that I had a tendency to overdose on. As I went through my many developmental phases over the years, I began scrutinising the cynical way I had honed for so long. The lingering taste of bitterness started replacing my saliva, like somehow being a cynic had turned me into something other than just an average human being. The Cynic took over, thus becoming Her Majesty.
Her Majesty ruled with an iron (albeit bejewelled) fist, seldom smiled and when one did appear it was oft a sarcastic smirk or pretentious greeting. Though glorious and splendidly irreverent at first, she soon became tart and inappropriate. When Her Majesty starts meeting the family, it's gone too far. Her Majesty is like the girl you take to bars and casual social gatherings, often introduced to acquaintances but only fleetingly socialising with friends. She's great company when you have nothing better to do and is a distant memory when your life is filled with more meaningful matters. She is never, under any circumstances to meet the family. And so, we parted ways.
Recently, I have been bumping into Her Majesty everywhere I go. And by recently I mean two days now. Very recently. She looks radiant and reminds me of our good times. She was a good friend. Loyal. But I still refused the offers to have a drink and drown my accumulation of sorrows. I told her that I fell in love with the most wonderful man I've ever known and she scoffed noticeably as if to remind me of the other "most wonderful" men we've known. I wanted to knock her teeth out but that's exactly what she'd like me to do so instead I took a deep breath and smiled, warmly. She seemed astonished. Bitch. That's what the old me would think anyway. I've been ignoring her calls, deleting her emails and yet, I look back on the times we've had and a part of me wants to believe that her scoff is accurate, that she is the kind of friend I should have in my life, instead of these fleeting bouts of optimism and faith (which she considers to be a legitimate illness) that I've clung to.
Perhaps her barbed wire exterior isn't aesthetically pleasing but at least intruders can't run in and out, stealing all her valuables. Not much is precious to her but the few things that are remain well guarded around the clock. I sometimes wonder if even she can still access them. Maybe there is something to Her Majesty's ways. She never smiles, or blushes, or laughs heartily, but she also never cries. Yet, despite the displeasure of tears (and snatty noses), I have decided to keep Her Majesty exactly where she is - in the far reaches of my mind. I never much cared for barbed wire.
Your Highness The Ephemeral Optimist,
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