First, let me explain that cynics are not the pessimists that everything assumes. We are actually hopeless optimists; we expected a better good from the world (we thought the world of the world!) and now we want to get even with it because we feel cheated. The world owed us something:
--A high paying job if we went to college.
--A lover if we followed to rules of romance.
--A peaceful life if we gave back. Paid it forward, if you will.
But it didn't happen. We went to school and didn't get the dream career; we did our hair and didn't get the dream girl; we played our cards right and the world still kicked dirt in our faces.
Then we begin to complain. That angst you hear in songs--read in poetry? It's from a cynic that has come crashing down from cloud nine, and we whine about our experience enough so we can know for sure that we must have been heard. "At least," we think, "I've given them fair warning." Artists and cynics: they're synonymous a lot of the time. Not all of the time, but a lot of the time.
The worst part comes as a realization that as much as we complain about how south our lives have gone, people will move on. They'll sympathize for a second though--or they might look at us like a sideshow attraction, even fall in love a little--but they will move on, and of course they will! What more could we expect from this world? The one that screwed us over...let us down...one full of a species who will take the path that gets them the greatest reward for the least amount of effort.
We followed protocol. Where's our reward?
Why is it all so personal?