Missives From a Pessimist

My youthful friend, when I was a lad such as you, I was dismayed to find that running a stick across the lathes of a fence did not make music. My hopes were the regular beat of a stick on slats would compose a song. It scratched the bright, white paint of the pickets, it oscillated my hand, it made a noise equal to the rhythm of my steps but it did not make music. Remember this sad story, my young fellow, so that you too will learn; life’s expectations should not be too splendid for I fear you will find it is the only means by which your disappointments are diminished.