Hopefully

What should be hated the most is hope. That little spark that never lets you go. That second glance, wondering if he'll look back. That double take, wondering if she'd even care. That mindless dreaming we wander in to. That small flame that burns. Burns in our eyes. That's the flame or lack of it. When we light up. That sparkle. That's what hope is. That's where it lives. Fireplace eyes. Ten thousand Brown Eyed Lane. Right there in the windows. You can see that from a hundred miles away. And that's just the good part.

When it dims, that's when the smoke all hits the alarm. The let down. You know what I'm talking about.

It's this hope that keeps me holding my breath. But see, stupid girl, what has hope brought me before? Just a bunch of dim-witted nights, tucking myself in. Life has a funny way of making me dizzy. Round and round. Like a child's carousal.

See, this could be a good quality. You know, the optimism. But what they forget to tell you in the memo, what they leave off the terms of agreement, is the painful part. The part when hail and wind and salt water come rushing in to extinguish your light. When the stars cease to sparkle.  When that tiny little piece of your heart dies. Candle, burned out.

But apart from the morbidness of the entire situation, this is the one everlasting flame. The one thing that neither hell nor Heaven, nor good or evil could ever annihilate. And us with our human emotions, we just have to hang on. And like we're wired to do, we'll relight that good ole fireplace. We cannot help ourselves.

But, hey, here's to another day.

Full of hope.