I could wrestle with my problems, clawing and biting and landing with bone shattering force,

like that of the bathos of the drunk stumbling into the home of the bitter-sweet angels, which I once took as my own,

like finding in yourself the remorse of the fallen,

like meeting your hero, only to find in him that which you hate about your self,

I could find a reason to take my own life, if only through self deprivation of vice,

I could scorn you all and run away, feeling burning contempt, towards your every word and action,

I could bathe in the sickly-sweet sensation of watching you destroy yourselves

but none of this could tell of why Voltaire was a cynic.