I have always been able to make a wall of myself and move onward. In the absense of hope, it is easy to forget and become imaginary, as if you are watching your own life from outside of it. But with hope alive, you are in it. And I begin to despise hope, as I think upon it. You never know if it is true or false. And it gives life to my heartache and pain, to my desires and fears. At once both isolating me from life’s flow while casting me into its tide mercilessly, while my soul yearns for nothing more than to rest and pray for the swift passage of time, where all of this will be nothing more than a distant memory, after hope is long departed. And at last, I could say, I knew this person, and gaze upon these events as nothing more than a story, another chapter in the meager book of my life. But I am in the here and now, in it. And I am not sure how best to survive it.