Optimism Has Left Me Without Hope

For all the optimism that is usually pouring out of me, I've lately had the feeling that I've been abandoned by optimism herself. Perhaps she saw me as a stalker; I am hyper-groovy about peace and love and always believe in happy outcomes when none seem possible. She must be overworked and tired from the constant demands on her time and energy that my frequent overuse of her sentiment incurred. It certainly seems I've fallen on optimism's pessimistic side; she apparently believes I have no redeeming qualities and has tiptoed out of town without leaving a forwarding address. She never returns my calls, either.

It's clear that optimism and I are on the rocks, relationship-wise. But like a crippled co-dependent, I wait optimistically for her return knowing she can't stay away for long. We've been through too much together.
Through deaths and divorces and sickness, she and I have bonded tightly, clinging to a hopeful future and seeking solace in the possibility of a brighter tomorrow. She has clung to my side as I traipsed across Europe with one baby, then two; she stuck by me when loved ones went off to war. She heard my plaintive cries for help through my master's degree, especially Statistics which would have made a pessimist out of anyone. But not me, because optimism was on my side.

Perhaps it was the flush of victory and the thrill of coming through so many moments of horror, not unscathed, but certainly blooming with hope, but I think optimism herself began to feel a little slighted. It was as if I believed I'd done it all myself without her help. I believe the final blow came when I referred to her as "my bitch."

As I finally began to bask in optimism's glory, she left me, felled to the ground and leaving me with no way to stand on my own. What I'm left with now is nothing less than pessimism, her ugly cousin. Pessimism doesn't allow me to stand unaided; instead it keeps me groveling where optimism left me, on the ground and flailing. Pessimism kicks a little dirt in my face for good measure.
I must find a way to appease optimism and lure her back to my side. But it is hard for her to find me when I'm trapped behind pessimism's translucent veil.

Search as I might, I can't seem to find the magical key to unlock her fickle heart and bring her near again. Pessimism is severely complicating the issue. So I will wait. I will silence the din of pessimism's howl and pierce the veil of my holding. I will wait for the return of the open mind and open heart. I will wait for the arrival of her joyous promises of a brighter future, knowing she will hear this song of mine, a song I have loaded with hope; for HOPE is the magic melody that only she can hear.

Ordinary World?

I'm laying quietly and simply among the covers on this random January day. It's warm and a breeze is blowing through the open window. I've barely been out of bed today; the incentive isn't there. The pain from my recent hip surgery still plagues me and my recent bout of pneumonia has done nothing to encourage my movement. So I simply lay among the covers and consider my life over these last months and attempt to place a template of perspective on it. My body needs reminding that my life is not over and that healing is actually coming. But in the darkness of winter it is difficult to tell yourself such things and actually believe them. The heart has taken hold of a much sorrier story, that of my own slow and painful demise. It's a beautiful story but it is not mine. I need to stand up and use the leg that has become so troublesome. The time of my convalescence is nearing the end and while I am relieved at the thought of returning to life as I know it, I will be sad to leave this womb-like state for all the comfort it has offered; my fuzzy, wuzzy mother-bed.
My body knows no balance; I will have to teach it discipline again. It can't be either all work or all rest. It has to be a gradual balance of both, but I don't yet know my limits and being too much of either extreme frightens me. It's amazing how the body can heal so much more quickly from disease than the mind. If my mind was willing, I'm sure I could push this hip forward today to accomplish something, if not great, at least useful. But the mind has yet to agree to such a bargain and I'm afraid that until the two strike a deal, this is where I shall lay.

A Child's Mess with Words...or Poems...Something

"Words...
Spinning round my head
Other thoughts have fled
Twirling round with ease
Like a light spring breeze
Words....
Shiny like brass
Coming out my ass..."

"This is supposed to be a children's poem," she rudely interrupts.

"I know."

Blank stare.

"I mean. No. I know. Yes it was just a test."

She isn't amused.

A heavy sigh, she signals again:

"Please, please try to focus..."

"This is not a very good children's poem,"  I smile.

"You're not funny."

Ouch.