"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
I had tried to avoid looking hope in the face by staying distracted by everything and anything. I usually think of hope as a happy thing, but for me, what began as a happy hope has turned into a very tired and sad thing. This hope that does not go away, no matter how hard I ignore it, wears on me, exhausts me. Reminds me how - still - I don't have what I so badly want. It'd all be easier if my mind could turn itself and be free of desiring, free of picturing, free of planning. I'd love to stop comparing. To stop constantly telling myself I'm selfish for wishing for more when some have none at all. That by some fault of mine God withholds. At twenty-five, I am breaking under the untruth that I must keep striving, striving, striving to keep Him happy with me. I have practiced some kind of subtle prosperity gospel in my daily thoughts. I am tired. So, so tired. What is truth? A question nearly as old as time. Why keep hoping? Should I keep hoping? Won't it make it hurt more when, weeks and months down the road, my prayers' answer is "no"? I don't know. Hope is there at my elbow again, and at that spot just under my heart, and in that awful mirage we call a dream. I don't know which is worse - continually living with hope or burying it. It is not a decision to be made in an afternoon, but I've had so many afternoons, and my eyes are heavy....