2005-11-01
hopelessly hopeful
hope is sickening. it has this disgusting stench. it tries to be so good so sweet and so pure but it's really dispicable.
it is most repulsive in its stupidity.
hope is ignorant and stupid enough to mentally contradict the accepted human logic. it goes against everything that is known, accepted, and conceivable in a pathetically incompetent way. These dumb notions make it frustrating and lowly pitiful. no; two plus two can't equal five, no matter how much you could ever hope that it does. look at what the world has shoved for you to deal with. that's not it.
hope peeks. every once in a while it pops up slowly and shows itself for what it really is, so feeble and measly, so perseverant in a way that is anything but commendable. it squeaks a request, disrupting the supposedly serene silence of contentment.
hope sputters. it doesn't know what else to do, it's the kind of thing you look upon with disgrace and wish it would just put itself out of its own misery already, that it would just distinguish because just so terrible to even see that it exists. you wish the hope was suicidal. the closest you can get to killing it yourself is the deep hatred and loathing of it, so deep that it morphs to be almost inconsequential, you are beyond and above it and it's even a waste of time to deal and reprimand it. but just enough dislike that you can still scoff it without complete dismissal.
hope whimpers mutedly. it has big round eyes, but they are pathetic and pitful in a way that makes you want to stab them in pain.
snicker at the hope. it really is SO stupid. so blind. demented.
but the hope doesn't die. it's still there for you to sneer it
and hate it as perhaps all things are hated: because they are a part of oneself.
you know you secretly nestle it at night.
yes, i like this fantasy.
this feels good to dream.
the reason the hope lives is you. you nourish it with succulent feedings, each time you let your chest rise or release a sigh of wonder. this is your fault, the fault in the way that you intrinsically are. it's just you.
hope is your scapegoat. or, you are hope. it's a part of you. your ill-founded romanticisms and ridiculous whims that thrive under your own illogical perpetuation of them.
hate it all you will. it IS sick. it is unecessary and wrong and so very sad to see, and, as you know, to feel. a frustrating waste of time, mindspace, and energy. allow yourself to feel hopeless about it, or press against it with the vigor of distaste only halfheartedly, because you couldn't really kill a part of yourself like that. you can't give it up. you love it, in a twisted way. it keeps you busy and dreamy and dodges a cold slap of reality.
no ridiculous hypotheticals and whims and possibles. obliterate it all. but do it with a sad-strewn look on your face, because it really is.
just maybe.
it's possible.
i could try.. again.. sort of...
no, i'll just surrender (no, you won't.)
the hope drips so thick.
enough to quench.
i'll hope for better.
leesah-likes at 5:46 p.m.