Hope is such a curious thing. It springs up even when your logical brain tries its best to shut it down. You know facts, you see reasons, but somewhere deep inside, it sits, a small seed waiting to crack open, given the right waters of encouragement in the soil of your heart, whether that soil has been prepped or lies fallow. Those waters can nourish delusion though, just as easily as legitimate dreams. Still, I would choose delusion in a heartbeat if it meant not giving up the feeling of hope, for there isn’t a more addictive drug in my world than that feeling of possibility. That euphoria or addiction to possibility often-times makes choosing the hardest part of living. It means feeling bereaved over lost paths and the cost of opportunity when deciding becomes necessity. For just that reason, I sometimes get disoriented in my hope, waiting too long to grasp at what I want, then starting the cycle again, with different dreams because it doesn’t die. I’m perplexed, yet grateful for that.

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