Chicken Little

Someone recently called me a Chicken Little. I will accept that label, although the better analogy is Cassandra, my patron saint. I keep telling people not to let that goddammed wooden horse through the gates, but do they listen? 

I try tell someone the sky is falling. How can the sky possibly fall, he asks?  He has never been knocked flat by fate you see, so he has no point of reference. Sadly, time will remedy his lack of experience. The sky falls on all of us sooner or later.

Trust me, I don’t want to be an Eeyore, a wet blanket, the voice of doom. I don't want to be a drag. I've learned to keep my pessimism to myself. I cheerlead for lost causes, nod and agree when I’m in doubt, accentuate the positive.  But, my dark heart always knows when I’m lying.

April is in my mistress’ face
And July in her eyes hath place
Within her bosom is September
But in her heart lies cold December

I tend to believe that I'm not a pessimist but a clear-eyed realist. The reality is, nobody wants to buy what I peddle.  So, what's a little white lie among friends? Whatever gets you through the night, right? Nobody wants to sleep with cold December; bring on April!

And thus we fiddle while Rome burns.