Yet, never in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
--Excerpt from Hope, Emily Dickinson
Chapter 6
You think it’s laughable to be so ignorant to believe that hope asks for nothing. You think it’s silly, juvenile really, to truly believe in your heart that if you just always have hope, never stop hoping, everything will be perfect and happy and sparkles and rainbows or some shit. You think they’re stupid, fucked in the head, not paying attention to the world literally falling down around them. You think they don’t understand, because every single time you hope for something it takes something away from you, the fucking game and paradox space and the universes and time shit and really, why hope for something when you know it won’t help a fucking thing.
And so, believing all of this, believing hope is a good for nothing fucker that ruins lives, a lifecrusher, when you see that human boy with the light of hope, the hope creating an ancient, primordial power and fueling everyone’s resolve, you pretty much feel like you want to smack past you in the forehead. With a knife. Because just look, the pretty magic light, no, light of fucking concentrated hope or some shit has actually created a person who is in the process of doing some soul-destroying, a prince of heart made by the hope in this human’s mind.
And maybe hope isn’t quite as worthless as you thought. Maybe keeping it with you is alright in the end. Maybe having it is just kind of a given, and it doesn’t really take anything away from you.
You feel content with hope.
