Let me tell a little bit about myself.
Words don’t mean all that much to me. More specifically, speech.
Perhaps I’ve been lied to one time too many.
Perhaps my expectations are too high.
Perhaps I foolishly believe that others will operate as I do, that their word is their bond.
When they say they’ll do something but they don’t do it, that bounces out of the “expectations: unmet: disappointed” bin and falls onto the ground. See, that bin is rather small and already pretty full.
No, this isn’t about you. This isn’t about something specific. I tend to forget, if not forgive, rather quickly.
But some expectations, nay, hopes pile up over time. Even unspoken ones. Like stupid little gifts on stupid little holidays or other such cultural traditions, however cynical I may be about them. Or random acts of kindness. Or showing care.
To me it’s not about words. It’s about what speaks louder than them.
So if I’m moping around, there’s no talking me out of it. I’m not wired that way. It’s going to take something else.
I don’t know what.
If I did, that would be an expectation to be crushed or blown away.
And yet, living with no expectations is just as sad.
Author Philip Rosenberg-Watt
License CC BY-NC-ND 4.0