Dear Journal: The Thing With Feathers

feathers_contourDear Journal,

Hope is a fragile thing. Often I find myself hoping for something that will never happen, something that is elusive, yet I can’t seem to stop myself. Then when it doesn’t happen I’m left deflated, and hope disappears in a puff of smoke, almost like it was never there to begin with. It almost makes me wish hope wasn’t a thing that could be possessed, that hope didn’t exist in any way, shape, or form.

When I was young I hoped that my parents would stay together despite the arguing, the silent treatment, and the other obvious issues they had back then. I hoped that somehow it would all be patched over and their relationship would be as good as new, not patched but whole like it was never broken at all. I hoped with all my might that it would happen, but instead the arguments got worse, and the silent times along with them. Hope was an empty vessel, hollow, and worthless.

But just like with any addict, I can’t leave hope alone for too long, no matter how much I despise it, no matter how much it sucks out my soul and turns it into mush. It crouches low, flexes its wings, and takes flight, giving me that giddy feeling inside, like I’m a schoolgirl with a crush. It makes me forget all the times it let me down, only remembering the feeling before it ripped out my heart. Because hope is lighter than air, and more enticing than love.

Because hope is a never ending anticipation that is exposed in the harsh light of day for the charlatan it really is. But night is closing in, and I’m hoping it can last forever.



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