May 7, 2007
We cynics are frustrated optimists. We are more sensitive to the pain of the scales that fall from our eyes. The sound of the fabric of our illusions being rent is like nails on a blackboard, and we cannot hide the discomfort it causes. For others, acceptance of the end of dreams is the steady, comforting breath of untroubled sleep; for us it is the death rattle of hope. We hide our grief at its passing under a hard mask. Underneath, our flesh is raw and flayed and stung by salt water. We delude ourselves that the mask is opaque.