This article was written for We Are Explorers, click through at the bottom of the excerpt to read the article, should you enjoy the start.
At some obscure point in my mid-twenties, between wishing the hours away until home time and wishing the clock would stop so I would never have to go to work again, I contracted a disease.
Not a disease, strictly, that would finish me off, gasping for one, last breath of fresh air like everyone else in the City. Nor one, like Reynaud’s, which boasts only a lifetime of whitish extremities thanks to genetically piss poor circulation.
Instead, one illness was swapped for another. Each day blended so seamlessly into the next that I was left with so few memories from a half-decade slumber that I sometimes wonder whether I was actually alive at all.
And then, on the morning of my twenty-fifth birthday, I woke up with it, an infliction that would generally confuse my closest friends on a regular basis. One that would counteract all of the decisions I’d been taught to make when I was a child growing up in a line production education. One that would make life bloody marvellous.
Delusional Optimism. That’s what they called it.
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