Today I hope for hope.
Today I need hope.
Today I come up empty.
At some point, hopelessness becomes its own weird grace. When you are hopeless, you are relieved of the burden of caring, of mattering to the world. It is a numbness of the spirit, a state wherein there's little pain even if the price is little pleasure. Sometimes that feels like a good trade-off.
And sometimes is a lie, even when I'm desperate to hide it from my eyes and chant "lalalalala I can't hear you!" lest I see and hear and be destroyed by the weight of caring and seeing that care, that desire for life, get shanked by a seeming random universe and a wholly unpredictable God who says He's good but whose actions don't seem to match.
Sometimes is a lie when I don't have the energy to keep doing what I've been doing any longer and pretending it will work *this time*, things will go differently *this time* because *this time* is the last time and the time before that, et al ad infinitum.
I can't keep seeing what I want to see instead of what's really in front of me.
I am hopeless now, so I can stop pretending.
I am hopeless now, so I can stop trying to convince myself my fears and desires were reality instead of just constructs in my head.
I am hopeless now, the castle of my perpetual self-centered fantasy is being razed, the ground sown with salt.
I am hopeless now, naked and tired, too weak to carry embarassment or denial (well, at least not as much as I used to. I'll never completely lose my awesome capacity for self-deception.)
It's a relief in a way, being hopeless. Now that I've given up, life seems clearer somehow. I know what I have to do to live.
Will I choose it? I hope so (Ah ha! Caught you, hope, sliding in through the doggy door!) but I don't *know*.