Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable. Justifiably, I am one to bring to the stand; as life has been none but theatre to play. The audience will never realize the verity behind the impersonated prima donna. I feign her, but who am I? I am not the prima donna in truth. I am a nothing, a character by the sidelines with no absolute purpose, a minor key that dawns once in a composition.
Candide, how cruel reality does shove itself onto you. Our own thoughts and philosophies become inadequate and trivial. What is the power in optimism? To falsify what we truly feel? To suppress the animalistic mind beneath?
I have never met anybody earnest enough to love the prima more than her counterfeit yet dazzling appearance or her nasty, charismatic innocence. I cannot begin to comprehend why humanity is too afraid of the Shadow, the truth. Man is all but brave to unveil the antipathy in the prima, that once they find it, they run far until they never need to face the Shadow anymore. They then will find a new prima, and a new one, and a new one...
Man is free at the moment he wishes to be, yet though I wish, I still cannot untie fear upon my neck. O, I am a victim of some harsh divinity, in which it shapes my end in a mannerism I may never know! Optimism? Where are you now?
I am a token of treasure, but I am always thrown to the cellar of swine. I might be selfish, I might be a brat; but I had been there for you, if only you'd have seen. I would have adhered by your side until the alpha meets omega, but I was renounced when I needed you the most.
I will never overlook or neglect a thing you have said or done. This will be my dying wish; leave me be, leave me alone. I hate all things and all people, and I especially hate all who did not care enough. This is it and this is all, I bid you farewell. Good night.
