Hope can be a nasty little bug; or the bittersweet epoxy that holds a soul together; a candle in a basement with no windows. Hope, like love can build us up; make us fly with false pretenses of what ‘could be’; like love, hope can constantly fill us with fantasy and yet, destroy us in an instant.
Hope and love are intertwined; the reason of every broken heart and beaming smile.
Hope is an endeared saint and enduring villain, whose passion and purpose we question on each adventure of lost love or unraveled optimism. To whom like a bully we can’t live without; that partner that hurt us deeply, but we go back to as our source of passion, purpose and feeling. Love, like hope, requires the time in between to forget how much it hurt – like a bad hangover that declares: I will never drink again.
I will never hope again. Yet we drink from the fountain of hope; in love, in life. We are masochists for feeling.
It’s hope that burns, that plays us. It’s hope that knocks us down and holds us up. It is the scoundrel prolonging despair and the hero that cradles our hearts. An untrustworthy opponent of self-preservation; hope remains the invisible glue that holds us together when we’ve fallen apart -- because of its own broken promises.
The great dichotomy, hope is.