I think I've become so wary of self-delusion that I've landed, by default, on the side of pessimism, of worst-case-scenario-ism. Which, I suppose, is just as deluded as is the all-season, rose-colored accessorizing camp. I'm not sure when pessimism became synonymous with reality, but it is corrosive, pervasive, and weakening of body and spirit--which is ironic, really, considering how heavy pessimism is, how much strength you must dredge up just to wield it.
Optimism, on the other hand, is light, energizing. It, like pessimism, feeds itself, but the more it ingests, the lighter it becomes--the more it carries us, rather than the other way around.
I speak like someone who knows optimism, but we're no more than nodding acquaintances. I can recognize it, but I can't start a conversation. It's not a language I've mastered; my ear is not yet attuned.
Usually by this point in the post I have an offering, a hint of a solution, a direction by which to set my (our) compass--that's the beauty of writing; the solution unwraps itself as the page gathers words. But this time, petals, this is all I've got: a musing on the nature of optimism.
Perhaps, optimistically-speaking, that's enough.