A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Unfortunately, they were both killed by one mossless rolling stone. Stone kept on rollin’ till the cows came home. The cows have been spending their days in greener grass, on the other side of the tracks. The very same tracks where a train rolls by, on board is a certain jungle cat, tried to change his spots, but you know what they say about that. He bought a one-way ticket to get to nowhere ASAP. Problems started when he got a horse for his birthday, couldn’t get it to drink a thing. Then like a fool, that cat looked that horse right in the mouth. Now that horse is fixin’ to skin him in more ways than there are fish in the sea. Now that cat is on the run, trying to beat the clock. Asked Time to wait up for him, but she’s stubborn as a mule, and being on a rigorous schedule, she up and left before her lamb could shake its tail twice. Now this cat is as good as dead, but then again when hasn’t he been? You wouldn’t be able to swing his corpse anywhere and hit a moment he hasn’t been sending the reaper love letters. “Hey” that cat thinks to himself, “At least it’s not raining. Worse things have happened and do. Everything will be okay.”

But when has Everything ever been okay? How does such a trite cliche detract from what is happening to him? Does he even believe what it is he says? Is it some zeitgeistal reflex, beat into him with some bizarre wheel of power, control, and optimism? What has him going back to those empty, self-reassuring, pseudo-optimistic words? What does it even mean to say that Everything will be okay? That’s not optimism, that’s not hope, that’s a lie. It’s candy-coated cowardice. It’s fear, followed by a total rejection of ration reason. It’s holding him back, hiding him from hope, and hindering hindsight. Everything won’t ever be okay. Not even judgement day will bring about that peace. For there will be a time when the new earth comes, and our strivings cease, and there is but one lonesome soul in that fiery pit. And at that time that soul will not be okay. “Everything” is to exact. Like a space shuttle. The smallest miscalculation will engulf the entire concept in caustic destruction.

I mean not to minimize the magnificence of hope. I simply say, that something as pseudo-sincere as saying that “Everything will be okay” is too broad to base any real belief in. Hope cannot abide in Everything. To say that Everything will be okay trivializes hope, and hope is too heavy a burden to bear to carry along with pretenders, such as that unspeakable phrase.

Everything can't be okay. Anything can be okay. Today, tomorrow, next Tuesday, will bring thousands of things that are okay. Optimists all over know this truth to be self evident, that all things have an equal chance of being okay. It’s just that that chance is fifty-fifty. One of those fifties holds hope, the other fear. And without fear, hope could not live. Without hope the optimist herself, could not exist. For fear is the addiction of the optimist. It is a rush, a release of endorphins and epinephrine. The idea that Everything hoped for will collapse, will crumble before the eyes. It’s an exhilarating feeling. The possibility to fail captivates, it entrances and entices even the purest of heroes. For fear is the great motivator. Fear drives our movement, it prevents stagnation. Fear is fight or flight. Whether we run off to another adventure or stay our course, fear is pivotal. The idea that the world will collapse sends the hero on her journey, for a world doomed is a world to fight for. Without fear it would all be for nought, killing time, not monsters. That is the secret the optimist refuses to share. We hope, and we fear simultaneously, symbiotically. They are in constant cycle of revolt, every revolution igniting the next. Never reaching resolution.

Sadly, Everything is too cumbersome to carry along either fear or hope. And thus is of no use, or desire, to the optimist. We stick to our many Anythings. They provide adequate action to the adrenal glands, and will almost always acquiesce to our thirst for adventure. Everythings are for the pessimist who deeply desires the dreams of an optimist, but doesn’t want the risk that precedes, and proceeds, reward. Everythings are for those that refute reality, and only require reassurance for their dedication to their own delusions. Everything can’t be okay, Anything can. Everything won't be okay. But you will, you'll make it through today. This will be okay, the next thing will. It's going to be okay. You will be okay, I promise. That's the key. Everything doesn't get to be okay, but this will.

Oh, and as for the cat, despite his deplorable understanding of this distinction, he escaped the horse. Then got sick as a dog, and died.