Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones:
"White Garden" a reproduction of a watercolor by Edward Burne-Jones (d. 1898) published posthumously (1905) by his wife in "The Book of Flowers" one of 38 images in the book.
(1905)

"Forgive me, for I seem to have intruded to satisfy myself and failed."

Cynicism must be one of the most contagious infections. Once present, it rapidly spreads, affecting even those strongly opposed to its presence. One cynic in a crowd can quickly poison several others before an exponential explosion of cynicism occurs. Then, suddenly, what once seemed fairly well-defined edges begin resonating with a self-same vibration. Those who were strongly opposed start vibrating with precisely the same tone they once found so put-offish. Then, the whole population descends into self-inflicted limitations. Possibilities smother beneath blankets of what I can only describe as disbelief, a tenacious and largely unnoticed mass inability to actually believe anymore. They want, they insist that they need truth beyond even the most otherwise reasonable doubt. They suddenly require evidence of purity that no test could ever even imagine delivering. What was once plenty good enough starts reliably falling short, and people start mumbling about how things used to be back before somebody screwed everything up, unaware that they, themselves, were the cynical ones who screwed everything up for themselves.

Cynicism seems to be the favored response of the wounded optimist. It amounts to self-inflicted punishment adopted as a short-sighted, naive form of protection. It reliably yields some of the sorrier forms of safety. It protects its holder from seeing beyond what might first seem just obvious. It successfully inhibits the kinds of dreaming historically responsible for dramatic breakthroughs. It ensures even more of even more of the same, or worse, and so amounts to a curse on progress and success. That it infects others ensures its impactful influence. It seems so satisfying at first, like that initial experimental attempt to appear adult by smoking at thirteen that turns into an addiction a short time later. Once such an addiction takes hold, a person becomes incapable of behaving responsibly. It falls out of their grasp. They are, at some level, thereafter ruled by an instinct they cannot control. They then default to what can only harm them.

Our incumbent brought a level of cynicism to his administration that hadn’t even seriously considered what administration might entail. However one felt about his approach, and most found it beyond reproach, it influenced even its most vehement critic. Those who saw and labeled the performance cynical might have fared a little better than those who merely registered it as unusual, but all who witnessed the degrading spectacle were inescapably influenced by that principle of cynicism’s contagiousness. My ends frayed in response. I caught myself straying into areas I had previously considered forbidden. I engaged in courser humor and maintained a slightly less cautious demeanor. If he was getting away with something, it was as if something inside me ached to get away with something similar. He became an unwanted role model, though I never once aspired to model his behavior in any way. The whole quality of civic discourse degraded. Behaviors once thought impossible became common. Hell, people even started wearing their pajamas to shopping malls. Society, in general, slipped a notch further toward Hell, handbaskets optional.

Eventually, MAGA comportment became acceptable, even in the more traditionally progressive and liberal realms. Patience for protocols diminished. People seemed less compelled to seek or even speak the truth. Ends began justifying even the more extreme means, and people seemed to lose patience with themselves and their once-sacred social protocols. People wanted results, and they wanted them now. They seemed to distrust their neighbors as well as themselves. Their social media postings slipped to new lows, down considerably from levels that had previously been considered just about as low as anybody could possibly go. Egged on by our malicious narcissist-in-chief, who seemed incapable of knowing any boundaries, we followed, though the best of us might have sworn that we had retained more sanity than was clearly evident in our emerging demeanor. We exchanged messages across vast chasms, impatiently explaining how they were wrong, expecting at least some appreciation if not immediate acceptance. We largely engineered our further separation this way.

Perhaps the very best way to distance myself from any other person involves attempting to inflict information on them for their own good. I remain steadfastly incapable of discerning what might actually qualify as another’s good at any point in time unless or until I ask them what that might entail. They might not know how to answer, but I am seemingly bound to accept as truth, however they respond. I was never capable of intuitively knowing what any other might require without first at least attempting such an inquiry. Cynicism seems incapable of asking such questions. Whether it firmly believes it already knows or just considers such questions to be inherently irrelevant, I have no way of knowing. All I know for certain, all by myself, amounts to almost nothing, for I, like everyone else, rely upon some echo-locating to properly position even my sense of self. My cynicism, which I might cynically presume I do not possess, infects my ability to even inhabit my own world. Pardon me for assuming without confirming what you might accept. You may safely ignore whatever advice I preemptively offered in the mistaken belief that I wasn’t actually trying to preserve myself and my own tenuous handholds. I genuinely believed that you would appreciate my good-hearted attempts to correct your obvious errors. I discovered, for at least the ten-thousandth time, that you, like me, might be entitled to our misconceptions and that even they might represent what we genuinely need to believe. My cynical attempt to make you believe differently might have been influenced by the poisonous cynicism I see unfolding before me daily. Forgive me, for I seem to have intruded only to satisfy myself and failed.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #EndDays, #PureSchmaltz