Hope is a funny thing. It's impractical, unrealistic, and maybe even delusional considering this craphole state of affairs our planet is in. And yet, what is more noble? What is more necessary? What is more human than hope?
I've had cause to lose hope the whole course of my life and I certainly have at times. And yet, it keeps coming back, no matter how down I get, and it's kept me alive.
All in all, hope's pretty cool. So, I feel like writing about it.
May 2, 2010
Laying in a broken heap, cast aside in some gutter as the rain soaks into flesh and tendon, blood and bone, your tears salting the drops that fall. What can you do? No one is there for you, no one is going to come and pick you up, drape you in their coat and take you into the warmth of their bosom. It'll never happen.
No, but you raise your head anyway, despite the despair. You look into the rain and feel its emptiness, but it doesn't push you back down. You get up off the ground, soaked and freezing, and wrap yourself in your own cloak, firm in the knowledge that nothing can kill the fire within, and it'll keep you warm for now.
You stand tall, spine steely, and a kernel grows inside that whispers with a sirocco's warmth: It will get better. And you believe it. You have to.