Hope is not a pretty tune. It is not an air-filled bone you can snap with the fingers of one hand.
Hope is the lumbering beast that sits heavy on your chest in the dark. It is the sore body that drags itself out of bed today and tomorrow and the day after, over, over again.
Hope is not golden sunshine. It is the screaming purple that appears when you stretch bruise-blackened flesh. It is the hand that drives blade and needle into that ache to draw blood. To try one more time to restore life, not knowing what that life might be, knowing only that life is better than necrosis.
Hope is no sweet song in a storm. It is the parched-throat cry that screams Enough when it would much rather get a drink of water and look away. Because it trusts that there is a better away worth looking to, worth screaming for.
Hope is the darkness that lights itself on fire anew each day. Because it knows that something must burn to bring the light.
Hope is the arms that roll up sleeves and get to work after the party.
Hope, my dear Emily, is not a songbird that won't shut up.
