#11 | cynicism vs hopefulness
cynicism’s a comprehensible blur — that’s a paradox, i know.
but in all honesty, that’s the only way i feel i can properly capture the meaning of what i’m trying to convey. how can i be so adamant in remaining distant and unbelieving of everything, when i still feel a sliver of something deep within; a pulling force strong enough to leave me contemplating small hopeful possibilities?
alright, okay, so maybe i’m not entirely cynical. i mean, i don’t want to be. to be completely cynical sounds a lot like the death of all positive emotion, and as pessimistic as i am, i don’t think becoming a stoic sounds fun at all. sure, it’s probably got its benefits — not getting hurt as easily seems like the hallmark of it. but that also means not having the opportunity to bask in joy or happiness. and isn’t that feeling what fuels most?
if anything, i often find myself stuck: whether or not i should believe or stay hopeful in something. (usually people, and those kinds of disappointments are the most dangerous & painful.)
i’d hear myself reasoning, “maybe it’ll be different this time round.”
but it won’t.
but it also might, just not now, or back then.
it’s absolutely frustrating — perhaps, i have never been cynical, just afraid of getting hurt, or disappointed. maybe cynicism is just the defense mechanism i came up with to convince myself i’m not as pathetically hopeful as i used to be, when i still believed everyone had the same heart as i did.
that being said, i think this ‘faux-cynicism’ (for lack of a better term) has seeped into my decisions, and i’m starting to think it only proves to be dangerous. with closet-hopefulness or faux-cynicism, comes recklessness, and with recklessness, comes chaos. and i’m already a chaos to begin with. but hey, why not add more to the mix, right? the more the merrier?
in the past few months, i’ve become this version of myself that is so shallow, so spiteful, so foreign from the person i thought i’d always wanted to be. instead of moving towards the best version of myself, i’ve regressed, to someone even i feel ashamed of knowing, let alone being.
on the list of things the ideal version of me (at least, according to my personal views) should have, includes being resilient, forgiving, and strong. and the list of things the current version of me has… none of those. maybe strength, but that type of strength is fueled by hatred, so i don’t think that should even be considered strength anymore. strength should be a sturdy support, not a hollow facade. but that’s what i have left, i think.
my cynicism has led me to believe that since all relationships (platonic and romantic alike) will only ever be futile, i don’t need to seek them out. rather, i don’t have the strength to seek them out. i let my fear of getting hurt transform me into someone too afraid to even try. and now i don’t know how to start anymore.
so instead of investing time, tact & effort in actual, meaningful relationships, i’ve let myself search for shallow ones instead — the kinds that mean nothing, and leave me feeling like nothing too. maybe i secretly think i deserve to be treated like i’m nothing; maybe that’s why i keep digging myself deeper into the pit that is misery hahahaha. i don’t know.
it’s not like i haven’t tried not having frivolous interactions; i promise i’ve tried to get myself back to the person i was when i still knew what i was doing with my life. it’s just that, each time i try, something knocks me down again. i don’t think i’ve had a strong resolve (or any to begin with lol) anyway, so maybe that’s why i get all dejected so easily. or maybe it’s the cynicism messing me up. hmm.
recently, i realised that i am honestly too exhausted to let myself deteriorate completely into someone without essence, or at least, just not me. i’ve become so shallow so quickly, it’s disgusting; all i do now is seek companionship in temporary individuals… and it’s exhausting. to put up this facade that i actually take pride in my superficiality requires so much energy, and faking my persona.
i’ll let dirty hands touch me just so i can feel that i still exist; i’m not just some floating entity, someone so temporary, i don’t even deserve a tangible body. the irony is — my reckless behaviour, if anything, has only served to legitimise my disposability. because i only make surface-level interactions now, i’ve become insignificant.
right now, it feels like i’m stuck in this arbitrary stage where i’m too tired to try reaching out — lest i’d just get hurt again — but i’m also too tired to continue the facade of my cynicism-induced superficiality. and i don’t know what to do anymore.
