Middle name's Lost. Just like summer rain.

There was a kid I knew once - brightly idealistic chap, walked with a bounce in his step, saw the world through the hues of springtime warmth. Granted, he started pondering life at a rather young age - recesses were sometimes spent strolling the school driveway and discussing life with a friend - but really, life was... Well, life was a massive playground to him. Studies were effortless, friends were everywhere, ignorance of everything irrelevant was bliss.I state the obvious when I say that he grew up - in truth, Neverland exists as a bedtime myth and Father Time waits for no man. Like you, he faced all the pains of growing up: teenage acne, a constant and inexplicable desire to rebel against authority, the pubescent problems of sexuality, innumerable encounters with school disciplinary authorities... whatever have you, and whatever have you not.And through it all, he maintained that irrepressibly optimistic view on the ups and downs of life. He thought of himself as unbeatable, invincible... Blessed. Fantastically idealistic; superbly naive, but too far gone to care. He believed that given his potential and the right opportunities, he could change the world to suit his desires.Fast forward to a recent past, whereby he experienced love and knew great loss, one that embittered him drastically, and one that I see no need to reiterate once more. It will be sufficient to say this: reality pays back tenfold for attempts to escape its prison, and he'd buried himself under a lifetime of romanticised ideals in order to flee.So where do we stand now, and what do we have left?A pessimist or an optimist? But surely it's more complex than such a simple dichotomy.A hollow shell? Impossible, because ultimately everyone bears substance.Maturity? But what is mature to you may not be mature to me. If maturity is subjective, can anyone ever be considered mature?Weathered, then - wiser to the workings of the world, and a lot less innocent and idealistic than before...... But that's not right, because i'm still idealistic; I cannot escape it, because the choice I made then is irreversible now. And so I overcompensate by being disgustingly cynical - cynical of all things good in life, of all things involving ideals. Of luck and coincidence as farce. Of happiness as transient. Of religion as fiction. Of love as the ultimate game where the house always wins.Tell me please - what happened to that boy from oh so long ago? Where is the irrepressible bounce in his step now? Since when did the hues of spring and summer evolve into the dull haze of alcoholic inebriation? Because I tell you now, that there is no real pride to be derived from being labelled a cynic - I wanna believe in something, anything, anyone... Without having to beat myself down with second-guesses, third-guesses, doubt and skepticism.Why have I become the way I am? I don't know, really. It's stupid to pigeonhole it as arising from one failed relationship, and you'd be equally as stupid to even attempt thinking it. And that's the thing - I don't know why I am the way I am.What was the catalyst for my change? Who was responsible? Was it her? Is it you? Is it me?It gets kinda sad looking back and thinking, 'Why am I shooting down everything good that comes my way? Aren't all good things invisible to the eye? What happened to following my heart?'I really don't know what went wrong. Something got broken and I just can't fix it.Isn't it paradoxical that i'm searching for an explanation as to why I cannot stop attempting to explain my life?