Between Seasons

I'm falling prey to pathological optimism.

I found a stack of articles as I was cleaning my apartment yesterday and realized that knowledge is about living beyond paper. My apartment is lined with volumes of opinion-ridden fact, rewritten with red pens and highlighters. They say I'm a product of biased education and metropolitan desensitization. I find that empowering.

At a young age, my father validated my psychosis. My firm belief in prince charm-me-not was strengthened by a traveling forgetful banker who set event reminders on his blackberry and still forgot to call on my birthday. And so, I became the kind of person who always reads the last paragraph of a novel before buying it. I became the kind of person who goes to bars for no other reason than to move the plot of life forward - who drinks Jasmine tea infused martinis and prefers the company of brilliant strangers to close friends because intellect can't break your heart.

I'm honing my bedside manner, because the diagnosis of life is uncertain.  When it's 50 degrees in January and New Yorkers are holding doors open for tourists, you realize there's hope for all of us. I don't expect the world to revolve around me, and I don't plan on walking around you seven times either, but I do believe that we can be happy simply walking forward.

The goal is to reconcile Romanticism with Bach.