The optimistic cynic

After listening to ideological dronings of mediocre speakers, them talking, teaching and dictating us on how to live our lives to the fullest, through, get this, giving people a chance and understanding them, all fantastic, all beautiful, all rubbish. Today, on my blog, I ma be takin' 'bout why we all don't have to strive for such 'relished' aspirations, today, I will be taking about the modern-day cynic.

The original cynics were, well, a bunch of bitter, old, Greek, men. Today, well, they are a bunch of younger, gayer, Asian, men. Well, a modern day cynic can be anybody, to be honest, I am not trying to tell you what to be, or define and box what it means to be a bitter person. You do you. But, I am also bitterly happy. Because for me, a cynical mind, allows for two amazing things. One, to never be disappointed and Two, often, as a result of one, usually, pleasantly surprised.

You see for me, the philosophy I have on life is simple. Keep you hopes low, and always expect the worst. That my friends, is what I like to call the optimist-cynic personality. An oxymoron maybe, but all contrasting ideas can work in union, a unique balancing act if you will, two weights complimenting each other. And like scales and weights, it all requires equilibrium.

A modern-day cynical optimist, knows risk and the taking of it well. Calculations taken, resources opened, factors considered, all to ensure the best result of any given obstacle. We by doing so, aid in the process of supplying that situation the appropriate amount of shit to give. The optimistic cynic knows that shit ain't free, and is not at the liberty to hand it out like hot shit-cakes. Big shits will be handed out due course, once the new cynics have concluded that it is safe, a probable success, an most importantly, deserving of huge shits. Little shits similar in the process of shit-giving. Thus, the value of our shits are exponentially greater than those who simply give, care, offer them at a wimpsy.

That is for me what it means to care little, but resulting in optimal results. The opportunistic way of remaining content, through realistic expectations.

Clocks

"Should I feel bad for feeling nothing; yet wanting something?" He asked as he held me in his arms, as I laid in his embrace, in the living room of his parents house. I did not answer.

It was a hot-ish day in the middle of April. In the cluttered but appropriately so living space of a family I've never met, even the boy, holding me I did not meet till today. Sprawling across the rattan sofa with sun bleached yellow pillows, I in his arms, he holding me. We had been tickling each other for some time now. How long? Well according to one of the four clocks ten giggling moments, another for seven. 

But now, I'm here wrapped in another boy's heat. It mixes with the stagnant weather of a Malaysian sweat, pleasantly discomforted. I start telling a story I don't remember what, probably about my friends that I don't speak to anymore I don't tell him that we stopped talking, but I continue to talk about them. I do not look at him, I look out the glass door, outside the balcony a lush tree suffocates the late afternoon sun between its leaves. The clocks move independently. 

"What are you thinking about" he whispers. I realize I faltered mid-way through my story, I was not thinking, I was just looking at the tree, it's leaves, the light shinning through, the black branches, the blacker shadows. "I'm thinking about nothing." I look up and make eye contact, to prove my truth, to negate any falsehood. Tick tock goes the four different clocks. 

I notice the tiles of the floor tinted slightly grey, but mostly white, the grout fairly clean. I notice the stacks of random objects on the multifunctional, multi-compartmented tv closet cum display beige monstrosity; a vintage relic. It was so full of the most odd things. A price tag, a tape measure, old newspapers, VCRs, a cassette tape, the main compartment was jammed full of books and various other things it couldn't be closed shut. "Thanks for today." I said.

"No worries," 

Thinking back as the clocks tick by, the day was uniquely different from other days of mundane existence in a coastal town where the sun movement and the Moon's rotation cycle without anything happening. Karaoke was fun but lack luster, I couldn't sing, I was flustered, I couldn't muster to scream jagged keys into cheap microphones, next to this guy who could hit notes better, longer, stronger. 

Tea followed soon after, it was an empty coffee shop in the heart of tiny Chinatown, a place that played Chinese music, a place that served tea sweet and the coffee sweeter. He paid for everything, he didn't have to do it. We drove to the beach right after where we climbed rocks placed to stop the beach from eroding, from the sand swashing away, I nearly lost my sandal; he rescued it. He held my hand as he skipped and I tackled the large boulders of granite. I showed him the quartz imbedded in them, I showed him the mica as well. 

Then we are here, in the apartment which the mango tree is shadowing the cluttered living room, me in is arms, his arms around me. Tick tock the clocks struck.