Last night I lied down in bed and wrote about seven pages in my journal which I entitled "The Cycles of Life." Ultimately it was no more than me meditating on my life, following the experiences of my life, and coming to this conclusion. Here it is:
I guess I'm just waiting for something to change.
A hope that one day a hope will not end up being a disappointment.
I told Amanda the other day, "My life is a series of disappointments. A series of new hopes that wear different names and different faces, and each of these hopes, no matter what it's been, has been a disappointment. It's gotten to the point that I'm almost afraid of hoping. I tinker with the idea that hope is nothing more than an escapist maneuver we embrace to avoid the pain of the present, that hope is an illusion we give ourselves over to in order to keep from facing reality square in the face. I've always said hope is barbed wire: the tighter you hold on, the more it'll hurt. I'm slowly coming to the point where I'm convinced that hope is a stupidity, that the logical and wise person would have nothing to do with it. But then again, I'm not so much afraid of hope--maybe it is a good thing--but rather the outcome. When you've hoped time and time again and been disappointed just as many times, then why hope? You're just setting yourself up to get hurt."
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