I’m a romantic. Totally and completely sold on the hope that long-shots have a chance.
I blame my parents.
My parents are sometimes annoyingly romantic. Not in the Hallmark card sort of way, but in the kind of relentless determination that people are basically good, that the best is yet to come, that surely the universe wouldn’t deny anything for the people that they love, that if you just love and cheer hard enough people will rise to their full potential. They are the voice that reminds me of the light when my moments are dark. I’m grateful for that. Everyone should have people like them.
But I still blame them… a little. Because it would be easier to just be a cynic. To resign myself to feel like people are generally selfish jerks, that tomorrow is just more of the same crap, that the universe gets off on doing whatever it pleases, and that for the most part, people are already as good as they’re ever going to get. God, that would be easy.
Except I can’t. I’m a romantic.
Not of the Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks sort of variety, but the Bogey and Bacall brand. The romantic who has an impossible affair at an impossible time, who suffers the impossible chance of owning the wrong gin joint in the wrong bit of Morocco during unimaginable chaos. The one who hopes that this time is different while knowing that it isn’t.
I’m the romantic who stands in the damp darkness and watches the plane leave as the universe whispers “haha, sucker,” knowing I’d do it again, then return to my gin joint to wait for the impossible return.