"Hope is the thing with wings."
"I have taken the pit as my home
and made my bed in the dark.
I have called the grave my father,
and the worm my mother, my sister.
And where now is my hope?"
-The Book of Job
"There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night." - Albert Camus
Do I have hope? I hope I do.
At one point in my life I would have answered this in the affirmative. I did have hope, if only for change. My entire life was before me, there were still possibilities left open to me.
Now? Well, there still are.
For example, the act of writing itself is an exercise in hope for me. By being brave enough to lay my guts out upon the page, I hope to realize some healing, or a feeling of connection between myself and others.
When I write I hope in the words I will find some essence of truth I am trying to impart.
And when I write I hope that my words mean something of some kind to someone.
And yet hope seems to me naive somehow. Like hope for the best, eager for a future that may not come. Or by allowing myself to hope, I open myself to greater and more drastic disappointments. By not hoping, I am not risking.
Hope does not insulate me from depression. It may give me a breath to grab a reprieve, but it is in no way a protective cloak.
Perhaps I will hope again for things that are bright. And not desperately dread the darkness.
Perhaps I will risk feeling, and then not feel so bad.
Perhaps life is about hope, because it causes us to risk reaching beyond what is in front of us into something better.