Fairytale Cynicism

On the benefits of hope

Hey! What do you believe in?

The role of faith in our wellbeing can be overlooked for the sake of lacking proof and strokes of luck.

Before I move further along, I will add that I am not a religious person. I know and was taught the important Christian prayers, but our family never really attended church. I even have memories of believing in the Abrahamic God and losing that faith as I fell into a childhood depression.

Religion, however, is not the belief I wish to bring up today.

I mean it more in a broader idea that envelopes suspension of disbelief.

Fantasies and fairy tales that make up the core of our oldest stories.

Myths and legends passed down through countless generations.

How important these illogical and incongruent ideas are to our everyday lives is sometimes lost in the details of more pragmatic plans. That inspires a certain decline into meaningless hedonism at best and despair-filled nihilism at worst.

And with that in mind, rarely have I ever felt so called-out for riding that line as I did this morning upon seeing a post from the great

Elena M. Cutri

.

Meaningful Struggle

What started as nothing more than a pithy statement sparked a greater discussion around what it means to care at all.

We waste so much energy defining the specificity of a given position that the emotion behind the song is lost. Sterilized description as the goal means we forget the sloppiness that makes us human.

And thus, embracing the absurdity of such ends only leads to painful cynicism. As I’ve said before, the problem with nihilism is how it makes the most logical sense. All things being equal and belief removed from the equation, there is no reason for existence.

It is then categorical, we must scream into the void — rage against the dying of the light — in order to find any meaning at all.

However brief the candle, the flame we share together is worth more than the sum of its parts.

Call me a liar as

Elena M. Cutri

did and I wouldn’t call you same.

I know I can come across as cold.

I know I leave more between the lines than what has been told.

An understated context is the key to how I embrace a more hopeful outlook for the future of our world.

Dense Prose

I was reminded of the idiosyncrasies that define my style with an automated message of what I posted a year ago.

I was working hard to push Maneus and his dirty corner store. The setting around which I forge difficult discussions and flawed philosophy.

More than anything else, Maneus was a subconscious cry for attention.

☕ Maneus — Philosophically flawed fantasy

I am someone who is uncomfortable with sharing who I am.

In that uniquely American way, I do not like being close with those closest to me.

I have thus learned to wear a mask and hide my intentions in everything I do — except for in my writing.

Having a medium where I feel heard will always be more important than the objective truth of moral superiority.

Zhenya

My hands were shaking. I cut them on the broken glass—broken bottles. I saw the drops of beer soaking into the carpet and was left with nothing but fear.

The dog whimpered in the corner at the tail end of the evening. She was annoying me a moment earlier, but I held it all in.

I hated her.

I hated him.

I hated myself.

“I should just leave.” I spoke through tears as she held my arm. My new fiancée proving she was better—mere months after my divorce. I wouldn’t even call it a mutual breakup. She just left me.

She. Left. Me.

I didn’t have a choice.

I did everything right.

Dad was the bastard. He was the asshole who made me who I am. Mom didn’t deserve to be treated like that—I didn’t choose to be born.

“Stop it!” She looked at my bloody hands and sighed. She was drunk too, but she still cared. She cared much more than I did. I was content to slowly die, but she was determined to make me live. She wanted me to hope for something more, but I saw nothing but the horror of who I am.

“If I can’t treat the dog right, how will I treat our children?” I spoke up in stunted breaths. I wanted to love her. I wanted to love them. Something about who I was prevented me from being who I should have been.

“Don’t say that!” She put a bandage on my hand and we held the puppy tight. She was excited with all the commotion of the evening—and that annoyed me for some reason.

Well, I knew why.

I just didn’t want to say it.

---

“Dance!” Dad screamed at me when he threw the bottles. He was a veteran. An honorable man who slept around with every skirt hiked high enough. “Boy!"

“Dad!” I tried to talk to him, but he just made it hurt more. He hated me for who I was. I ruined his life and every moment I existed meant he couldn’t be himself. Both of them were only married because they feared what would happen if I were born and they weren’t together.

My existence was a contradiction to their happiness.

I am the antithesis to what they wanted out of life.

But I couldn’t think about that between dodging broken bottles. A drunken madman ready to ensure I don’t remember tomorrow. I could endure the pain for the sake of my siblings—they would never understand, but that’s okay.

“Shut the fuck up, boy!” Dad was cruel when I was young. I know now why that is, but it doesn’t change how it forged who I became. The disappointment in every bad-mouthed breath, he let me know I didn’t belong.

“Dad!” I shouted as I cried. He thought I was weak when he saw the tears. He knew I would never be able to follow in his footsteps. And that only made me all the more disappointing in his whisky eyes.

“Get the fuck up.” He didn’t even extend his arm. He just blew smoke in my direction to let me know it was time to go. Bruised and browned, I would smile in the face of that deception. Looking over at Mom who said in her own wicked smile—wait until your father gets home.

---

“Dad!” My son shouted to me and I didn’t care. He was wrong.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I tried to control my emotions, but my body didn’t listen. I was already moving when I realized what I’d done. He was on the ground and what was said could not be undone.

“I hate you!” My son shouted those same words to me as he left a trail of blood. I stared at my shaking hands and remembered what I said.

All those years ago when she comforted me and our dying dog.

---

“I can’t be a Dad if I’m going to be my Father.” I whispered the words through a veil of tears. I meant it well, and I have never acted against those wishes.

“I love you.” She started. “I would not love you if I didn’t think you would love our children in the same way.”

I took a moment to register what she said, but I knew what it meant. She saw the potential in me to do good, while I focused on the bad.

We shared a long moment together as we accepted who we were, but I sometimes struggle to believe my children learned what it meant.

Hopeful Desire

I’m not sure what I hoped to accomplish, but I do know that I feel more comfortable in my own skin.

The joke of immortality is that we will all eventually be forgotten.

🗡️ Rhean - Adventure across a continent

The only hope we have is in fantasy.

Why would we not hold that irrational fear closer to our heart to feel better in solidarity?

The answer to that question may remain hidden, but I freely admit to my own willingness to accept the absurdity.

Hope in any form is greater than the fear of retribution.

I can only wish to share the sentiment.

Otherwise,

Until next time.

—JMB