RETIRED OPTIMIST

AS TIME GROWS, HOPE SHRINKS and I want to know why. I have a theory, but I only did one year of psychology in university before switching to the arts, so take this as you will. Hear me out. When we were young, our entire lives were undecided. We were blank canvases verging on the brink of consciousness, untangled beings with no baggage but the rucksacks on our backs. We hadn’t failed yet, not in a greater capacity than sticking a knife in the toaster or spitting up creamed dinner over our mothers. We also hadn’t accumulated enough shame. 

Years harden us. They turn us into failures and cynics and heartbreakers, and we fall or we’re pushed down repeatedly, and it is only when we learn that only we can save ourselves, that we can stand on our own two feet again. But the falls form a fear of falling, thus we learn it is far more dangerous to be at the top than it is to ever be at the bottom. What did Plath once say? The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther. 

Perhaps it is the same reason so many of us stay still. We, who once dreamed perpetually, now dare to dream at all. We become complacent with mundanity, we tell ourselves that this is what life really is, and any other version is simply a misjudgment of reality. We accept average, come to terms with the death of our dreams and focus on doing what is expected of us. We become mothers, partners, workers, wives, and so often, so very often, we stop entertaining the idea of being anything else. This is not to say being these things is bad, not at all. In fact, it’s often through motherhood and marriage and relationships that we grow fulfilled, but that being said, sometimes we lose ourselves and just can’t seem to find our way back. 

When I was young, I was the most annoyingly optimistic kid. Not outwardly, but I was sure that my future would be bright. Ihad it all planned out: move away and be a strong, independent writer with no kids, no commitment, just me and my four dogs. That was my plan on Monday, but by Thursday I would be a waitress on the Mediterranean Coast, feeding the stray cats every morning on my way to send another letter to my lover who is across the ocean. By Friday I was a powerhouse woman sitting alone in a Manhattan Jazz bar, having the most sophisticated men buy me cocktails and railing me in the elevator after. Each of these lives were waiting for me patiently. There was no rush. I could meet them when I was ready. Only now, it seems, they have passed me by. 

And I know how it sounds: a twenty-one year old resigning her desires in the name of time, but I am afraid I am set-in-stone, that if there was ever to be a version of me living these lives, I should already be her, and I am not. I am something else entirely. I am, as I am now coining, a retired optimist. So for now, I shall continue to worry about the future of the planet and ruminate on all that could go wrong in my life. 

All my love,  

Emily/Retired Optimist/Angel/Devil