Hope

As a compound act of defiance, I’ve decided to ignore my conditioning and my genetics. I found myself… lacking, which is abhorrent. Existentialism has seeped into my bones, and I’m finally at peace with it. I’ve “created oneself,” and now try to live by it.

The price was heavy, but it is paid.

As Kierkegaard left us:

If I were to wish for anything, I should not wish for wealth and power, but for the passionate sense of the potential, for the eye which, ever young and ardent, sees the possible. Pleasure disappoints, possibility never. And what wine is so sparkling, what so fragrant, what so intoxicating, as possibility! [1]

Hope. Possibility is hope, and hope may never die. I’d rather lose my footing in daring than to not dare and lose myself. My bets are safe, for they stem from a place of love — and to face away from love for fear of the outcome “is the most terrible deception.” I will not suffer eternal loss. I’m fueled by the tiny motions that have made me happy, but I’m guided northbound by hope.

(To paraphrase Peter Liddle [2], it isn’t true north until it leads me to her. Some connections run too deep, and she is the way that I know. And so, I’ll keep her safe, but not through depriving her of her own battles. I’ll simply fight the demons, day in and day out.)

Hope may never die.


  1. Either/Or: A Fragment of Life, Søren Kierkegaard. ↩︎

  2. Demons, Dry The River. ↩︎