Pessimists revenge?

I torture myself with this optimism, imagining a future that will never be. It hurts too much to know the tides have changed, that I now stand where once you stood.

There have been changes, small ones and for the better, but not enough to make a difference. Not enough to keep dry.

And you erased it all, the little pieces I had left; now I have only vague recollections to hold on to. I always thought your words were concrete. How foolish of me to have believed technology might save me. That was always your realm.

And this wasted day is proof of it all, that I am still here waiting, waiting for something that will never be, possibly waiting for something I'm not yet sure of. Only waiting, but what good has waiting ever done?

Would it really matter? Would this be any different from before? I've waited on so many things, endured it all; though I think perhaps this one tops them all.

Treacherous optimism, leave me be. Let me be like the rest and see how terrible it was, how terrible it might have been. At least then I might not care, might not remember, might not want and ache every day that I wait in vain.

But taking action would only prove futile.

So I'm lost in this arms race against myself, free falling into uncharted territory, and no one is any the wiser.

At least not...