I don’t give up on anything. That was me. Always been me. I’d gather what little hope I could, and kept walking straight ahead even when I knew it was a steep path. But even I can get tired of gathering twigs to build a fire and keep you warm. I held your cold hand and no matter what I did, it was still cold as if I didn’t hold it with my warm hands.
I ask what is hope for, if not for another reason to feel empty? The answer, what is life for without hope to fuel me? I could lie to myself and say I no longer hope for things to be better tomorrow, yet in the end when a slight ray of sunshine pierces through the dark room where I have stayed, I look up and yearn for more.
Hope is the thing with feathers, it comes and it goes. When it goes, I miss it. When it is here, I embrace it. Without hope, I am nothing and I’d much as well die. Without hope, what use am I?
I have withered without hope. I have lost the little pieces of me I owned. I dare myself to hope again, because it takes courage to hope. It takes strength to jump when you know you’re going to fall.