Cassandra Mortmain had so little to go on as far as fact or even idea. Her imagination storage was pitifully low when she she set out into the world. I feel foolish at the idea that I have so much more knowledge pent up in myself and I still fumble frequently and epically. I am so much more like her fictional self than I would like to believe. I admire the way that she takes the world in and spins it out beautifully on paper, but who wants to be a brilliant writer when the side affect is that you believe in fairytales? When you repeatedly let yourself believe that something you held within your grasp for so brief a time will someday reappear. That's the other side of hope and optimism. The refusal to be disappointed leaves you forever grasping at the past and large chunks of your life weighing heavily in the shelves of your mind just in case.
My good sense argues with my sunshine emotions so frequently that sometimes, I feel very trapped. Trapped between what I know is healthy, and what I know could be wonderful. Most of the time I live peacefully within the bounds of my optimism, but sometimes, when the argument for the side of sunny has become so sickening sweet, I come to this self disappointment. This crushing, bitter person who lives within me and causes my constitution to weaken, my eyes to stare sadly, my stomach to twist and turn in the pit, and who absolutely will not allow me to retire to the peace and hope of my dreams, keeping me awake for long, long hours while I try to tell myself not to be ridiculous. Grow up, move on, grow a spine, be cold - these are the sorts of things I say, trying to convince myself that these are the survival tools that I am lucky enough to understand, and that will get me through with dignity.

I am looking forward to the "Aha" moment that will return me to my golden-self, but today I can only see the circumstances falling fast trough my hands and slipping away with time.
Even the optimist needs a moment to breathe and be human, right?