Hope feels dangerous.
A common enough sentiment, expressed by more fluid, fluent, frequent speakers than myself.
One I've taken to heart many hundreds of times over.
Don't want.
Don't like.
Don't enjoy.
Don't
hope.
To desire is to expose, to give the world a foothold or handle to step on you or pull you down.
Hope is much the same, daring the (apparently) uncaring universe to take, steal, shred, kill the dream you dreamed so recklessly.
My mantra: expect the worst, hope for the best. But the latter half is forgotten so often.
Expect the worst.
Expect the worst.
Expect the worst.
Because to hope would make it worse than worst, a syntactical impossibility but a crushing inevitability. Betrayal piled on disappointment topped with despair.
If the worst happens.
If it doesn't . . .
Hope is dangerous,
but
it,
despite repressive laments, desperate dismissals, flat denials,
is
inevitable.
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