I remember having a conversation in college that revolved around poverty or some sort of undefeatable social ill. I essentially asked "what's the point of helping when we're never really going to change anything?" I think it's a good question to ask, but I think it's a terrible place to end. How one answers this question is the crossroads between cynicism and realism. I prefer to think of myself as a realist, not a cynic, which is why tomorrow I will explore my response to this poem. I entitled today’s poem "Cynicality." I know that the correct word is "cynicism," but I changed it to "cynicality" for reasons I'll explain tomorrow.
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