I often feel that cynicism—and its darker sibling, nihilism—are akin to entropy.
It takes energy to resist entropic forces, and it takes active effort, a push against gradients, to keep cynical thoughts from creeping in. A cynical stance follows the gradients and feels listless to me: the state of watching dust gather on shelves.

In contrast, the idealist/optimist/naïf (whatever name you give the opposite of cynic) expends effort. It is not to say that it’s better or more praiseworthy. Organizing the world into a crystalline lattice is a Sisyphean act, and incessantly pushing a stone up a hill is no less strange than watching dust gather.

Perhaps, between these extremes, there is the effort in apparent stillness. There is Atlas, bearing the firmament. A gardener, watching their garden grow and die in a natural rhythm.