The Lie I Call Hope

 The biggest lie I keep telling myself is not to lose hope when at the end of every day, I stare hopelessness in the eyes and repeat the one sentence I hold on to in the hope of a better day. What if the lie we tell ourselves to stay hopeful is the only thing that tethers us to our Earthly bonds? Because without the hope of better days, sunny days, or happiness beyond our imagination, what else do we have to hold on to except for hope?

When hope is nothing more than this imaginary God we pray to, what then? What is the next thing we cling to when we discover its presence is a mere illusion? To our faith? Which is only hope in disguise. We’re told not to lose hope, to have faith in the unknown, and to mindlessly go where we are led because that’s where we are meant to be. But what if we weren’t meant to be anything more than hopeless romantics, clinging desperately to our faith in a higher power, waiting around blindly for love, happiness, for calm?
What if some of us weren’t meant to know such bliss?
What if we were all capable of questioning the existence of hope, faith, and wishing on shooting stars? If nothing more, we disillusion ourselves in these vivid daydreams that play out in endless loops until we are lost in imagination to wake up the following day, thrown back into the dullness we call reality. We make the bed, brush our teeth, drink our coffee, and do it in the stillness of a house that once knew laughter.
Sometimes, though, it might just exist inside, and as you walk through the quiet halls, you see what could be in your imagination's eye and feel the weight of grief fall heavy at each slap of barefoot to cool tile. Yet we dream, we hope, we pray, we wish, and we have faith that there’s something more for us out there, somewhere. If only we believe we deserve more, more will manifest and swarm you with the warmth your abysmal life had been lacking.
But I digress.
It’s a different scene than anyone ever played out; I see the happiness, the rooms filled with love, the house with laughter and games being played. There’s music bouncing wall to wall, of furniture being scooted across the wall to make room for dance moves or movie nights. In my head, it’s this perfect little package full of love, not the heartache my body clings to.
Yet I hope for the better days, pray for the clouds to part, believe there’s something more for me out there, and wish on every shooting star for any drop of happiness I can lap up.
Hope is not only the life preserver I hold on to but also the wave that pushes me under.

Yet, I still cling to it.