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The curtains were closed with some type of invisible, intangible glue, or so one would assume�they hadn�t been opened so much as a crack all day. There was no sunlight to let in, anyway. It was a sort of superstition that watching the drizzling rain would make it beat down steadily harder until it drowned your pathetic little world. It was sort of the antonym of the watched pot metaphor. Everything on the outside tended to be distorted in the favor of the enemy, while on the inside�the slow and steady repetition resembled a blacksmith�s hammer striking a mallet, forging the sword whose blade you would inevitably die by. But such was life in this day and age. Every step only moved you in the negative direction, anyway.
In ferocious opposition was that nosy little beetle, buzzing about our heads, nagging at our ears. His name was Optimism, and he was a clever fellow�always just out of reach, with those wings that could beat twice as fast as even the nimblest of human fingers. He lingers at arm�s length, like a tease. That only hurts us more, being able to see what you desire but knowing you can never touch it. But the creature is fleeting, anyhow, with a shorter lifespan than most realize. Optimism dies in the face of his stronger cousin, Adversity. He was a friendly insect with a liking to perch on your shoulder. He was sitting on mine far too often lately, like a perpetual itch.
We could have a fight. We could raise our fists and prepare to duel. We could take the hatchets out of our belts and lift them above our heads as though to strike. Or�or we could sit idly by and do the safe thing, the easy thing. Of course. Better take the safe route than wind up floating in a puddle with a gaping foot-shaped hole through your chest. Why hand yourself over on a silver platter?
I dare to peek out the window, and they�re all floating by. But I am in here, safe. I pat the beetle on my shoulder, and search for his kin for a spell, just for a moment.
Optimism has flown the coop.