At the end of a long, grey street stood a small, rather peculiar building. Above its door hung a crooked brass sign:
The Department of Unlikely Possibilities.
Nobody knew exactly what went on inside. Most people assumed it had closed years ago.
One Monday morning, a man called Arthur walked through its doors.
“I’ve come to complain,” he announced.
“Excellent!” said the elderly receptionist. “We don’t get nearly enough visitors.”
Arthur frowned. He said,
Everything keeps going wrong. My plans fall apart, my luck is dreadful, and every time I think things are improving, something else happens.
The receptionist pointed towards a brown suitcase Arthur was carrying.
“What’s in there?” she asked.
“Disappointments. Regrets. Worries. Things that might go wrong.”
“Ah,” she replied. “And how long have you been carrying it?”
“Years.”
“Must be exhausting.”
“It is. I feel like I’m aching all over.”
The receptionist opened a drawer and produced a small brass key.
Room seven. You’ll find what you need in there.
Arthur climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
The room was completely empty, except for a chair, a window and a handwritten notice on the wall.
Nothing in this room is guaranteed to improve.
Arthur stared at it.
“That’s not very encouraging,” he muttered.
Beneath the notice, in much smaller writing, were six more words:
But nothing says it cannot, either.
Arthur sat down.
For the first time in months, he considered the possibility that tomorrow might not be a repeat of yesterday.
He looked out of the window. It was still raining. The street was still grey. His problems were still waiting for him.
Nothing had changed.
And yet, something had.
He stood up, picked up his suitcase and walked downstairs.
“Well?” asked the receptionist. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not exactly,” Arthur replied. “I was hoping you’d give me a reason to believe everything would turn out all right.”
Oh, we don’t deal in guarantees. That’s the Department of Wishful Thinking. Closed years ago. Terrible management.
“Then what do you do here?”
“We remind people that uncertainty works in both directions.”
Arthur thought about this.
“So things might get worse?”
“Certainly.”
“But they might get better?”
“Absolutely.”
“And I won’t know unless I carry on?”
The receptionist smiled.
“Now you’re getting somewhere.”
Arthur looked down at his suitcase.
“Can I leave this here?”
“You can leave some of it,” she said. “But you’ll probably need to carry a few things home. Life is like that.”
He opened the case and removed a handful of worries he could do nothing about that day.
The suitcase was still heavy, but he could lift it more easily.
As he reached the door, Arthur turned around.
“One last question. What exactly is optimism?”
The receptionist considered this carefully.
“It’s not believing that everything will work out,” she said. “It’s refusing to treat the possibility that it won’t as proof that there’s no point trying.”
Arthur stepped outside.
The rain hadn’t stopped.
But for the first time in a long while, he noticed a patch of blue sky between the clouds.
He smiled and began walking.
Not because he knew what tomorrow would bring.
But because he was curious enough to find out.
The moral: Optimism isn’t a prediction that life will go your way. It’s the decision not to write off tomorrow before it has had a chance to introduce itself.