Interlude on optimism
I watched a YouTube talk last night, provocatively named “why you will marry the wrong person”. Now this is a rather inflammatory and disputable topic that gets my hackles up, and one I’m more sensitive to on my off days. I’m a strong proponent of wielding my fate in my hands, as opposed to leaving it up to fickle chance or god forbid, a passerby’s opinion. I recognize that control is not always possible — luck and karma holds sway — but I do what I can.
So I listened through one ear, until he said this. And this was like a white spear of light in a dark dusty Hogwarts broom cupboard:
Scratch the surface of any regularly angry person and you’ll find a wild optimist.
I’m infamously moody. And here was a brilliantly fitting explanation of why I couldn’t calm this tempestuous storm that has characterized me since I was a child.
I rage because I hope. I’m an addict to the beautiful solidified manifestations of my notions and urges. I must do, and do masterfully, from droplets of wishes into commanding dignified oceans. I cannot sit at peace with myself otherwise. Mediocrity is uncomfortable on a cellular level, and not something I’m designed to tolerate.
Spark bombs and delight in the festivities! It’s like Survivor — the game is a struggle but I love the days, good and bad.
So I object to that trite suggestion given to perfectionists of the world, to “adjust your expectations”. Of course it won’t work out like you plan, that’s the fun in it. We will try like hell anyway. Let’s be a prime agent of hope and goodness and love, however dangerous that is.
After all, all we have to do is get the job done.
