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The Optimist
Someone once told me to love an optimist for they hold knowledge of a world we have not touched--knowledge that has been burned into their skin.
Screaming for help, their melted skin spawns a design.
Indeed, they were once like us, lingering, lost, feeble souls---running from sickness.
Overtime, they began to see the light hiding in the corners of dark--wanting to be found though everyone else feared they would get weary and lost.
It is not fear itself that scares them but a form of catching the disease we all have consumed--one sip drowns their ambitions and swallows up their heart.
Someone once told me to love an optimist not because of their comfort and security, but for they have lived a life we have never touched and scars we have never seen.
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