An Endless Blue Circle. In It, A Star

I hope for better days. For a long time, I thought I hoped for days long behind me. But that’s not really true. I cherish the memories of the past, the moments, the silences, the hugs. But I don’t hope for them again. I sometimes wish I were back there because the present is so devoid of those little things that I got used to for a while. But that’s what it is, a habit. I wish to get back in the habit of those things – but I think I’m starting to realize I don’t want them back.

I want to move ahead; forwards, not backwards. I hope for a future that can be as affectionate as my past was, perhaps more. I am still not sure what my future brings, and that’s scary. What if I never rekindle the same feelings I had before? What if my reserve has run empty? It certainly feels empty now – and that’s probably why I spend so much time living in the past.

But my hope isn’t in the past, my hope isn’t even in the present, it is in the future. And perhaps, I will one day have the light my heart aches for. Perhaps one day yet, there will be a small bit of happiness, a warm place, waiting for me to just arrive. Perhaps it is more wonderful than anything I have experienced so far.

I think I am slowly regaining the hope I thought long gone. Finally, the light at the end of the tunnel seems to be approaching. And maybe, just maybe, there is something waiting for me at the end of that tunnel; something, perhaps, which is unfamiliar, unknown. But, from what I’m learning, I should no longer be afraid of the unknown. For although it may seem scary, although it’s something that seems out of reach and out of control, it’s something that inevitably happens. We are confronted with the unknown every day, in small unnoticeable moments. And when it is presented in such a way it doesn’t seem that daunting. We deal with the unknown on a daily basis, and perhaps even when it presents itself in a larger light, as a more serious force to be reckoned with.

Perhaps, hope is not “the thing with feathers,” as Dickinson once wrote. Rather, hope is having all your feathers plucked, and still wanting to fly; believing you still can. Perhaps that’s what hope truly is.