A cynic on sabbatical
Who? Me? An update at the end of the limbo and maybe a restart of this journal.
I waltzed through life in my 20s with the confidence that my joie de vivre would never be marred by the passage of time.
"I will never be jaded like those older folks." Said I, probably.
How naively foolish yet how hopeful. The idealism I carried at the center of my being met a world so alien, so harsh that I—too sensitive, too fragile—broke apart little by little at first, and then suddenly all at once. At 30, I was a cynic.
Being a cynic isn't hard work, it's not even honest work. To be a true cynic, one must surrender to despair at all times; one must be a victim in every possible scenario: “I am virtuous, all these other idiots can suck it.” Just regurgitate the same narrative authored by yours truly (or any other nihilist) to unburden yourself of the Sisyphean quest to find your place in this vast world: "Nothing I ever do will change anything anyway.”
I quit my job in the summer and hid away. Time wore on in the cozy comfort of being invisible, unneeded, and untethered to things, people, and places.
But here’s the thing, time does wear on. No matter how slowly, it still passes by unremittingly. The seasons always come and go.
In autumn, I wandered. Being shown how to properly eat ssamgeopsal with mul naengmyeon; being pointed to available seats on a crowded and unfamiliar subway; being offered to share a tiny umbrella in the pouring rain. All these brief moments existed in languages we didn’t share, and yet we understood each other all the same.
In winter, I came home. There were always smoothies in the fridge, my favorite childhood dishes on the table, roasted sesame and salt, and midnight tom yum noodles in storage. There were home-delivered chef-made pastries and matcha. There was even steamed rice cake from the neighborhood retiree club. All without ever being asked to.
In spring, I hid from the outside. In entirely different worlds drawn, written, and shaped by others, I was awestruck by the beauty of it all, the art and the stories. I fell in love, cried, laughed, felt the angst welling up in my throat, and lived the lives of the characters I read. Like Kim Dokja, Kim Readerssi of the Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint universe, I left pieces of myself in these stories, and they, in turn, sustained and changed me. There were also always lemon tarts in the fridge.
In summer, I was wrong. Nothing means anything anyway, but in the end, I would still have all of this.
The seasons came and went. So here and now, I wrap these old feelings, ones I've held on for a little too long—my anger, my heartbreak, my disappointment—in last summer's cicada songs and mid-autumn's yellowing leaves, in winter air so crisp it tickled my skin, and bury them in the soft earth beneath my feet, its surface shimmers with spring’s morning dews.
Part of me is the same bumbling fool that fusses over the littlest inconvenience, but in the changing of seasons, I am comforted by the gracefully unrelenting nature of this little life that, alas, this too shall pass. Whatever “this” is.
“Nihilism is not overcome by arguments or analyses; it is tamed by love and care.”
You Can't Be Neutral on a Moving Train, Howard Zinn
Anticynicism in the shape of hope and kindness is the antithesis to nihilism, the googly eyes to life's donut hole. You could say I've been Waymond-ed or Kim Dokja-ed. Their softness is a form of resistance in a world of sharp edges.
I don’t have on my rose-tinted glasses; I’ve also left despair somewhere back in time. In its place will be my awkward attempt at loving this little life of mine, at being patient, being kind, and even happy in the backdrop of a burning world.
I will bear witness to the small joyful things, that will be my role and place, even if nothing I do will ever matter.
If not out of love, I’ll still be an anticynic out of pettiness.
Your silly, chronically online over-sharer is back, same same but different.
— Zoey
P.S. folks, I haven’t written in ages. If you spot any errors, pls let me know.