december first

I try to have hope. I really do. It's just... When you hope so strongly and for something so simple, and when that hope becomes a disappointment again and again; and when everything in your life points to the fact that maybe hope is a foolish endeavor, it becomes difficult. In my state there are two routes one can take: hope or hopelessness. There is no middle ground. Hope is painful. Hopelessness is painful. There's no pleasure to be found, no solace or contentment within reach. The pain morphs depending on which direction I walk, towards hope or hopelessness; one breeds a certain type of pain and the other breeds another. I envy so greatly those who have their lives handed to them on a silver platter. I envy those who have been granted such characteristics that they can easily attain what feels like a daily battle for me to even hope to attain. I envy those who sit in their ivory towers of fulfilled dreams. I am tired of hurting. I am tired of breaking. I am tired of going to bed every night bathing in the sadness, and I am tired of waking up every morning knowing that I am one step closer to my next disappointment. It becomes so overwhelming that all I can do is curl into myself and isolate myself from those who care about me. It becomes so overwhelming that my only manner of coping is to pretend everything is okay and to distance myself from my friends. It isn't much of a coping maneuver; perhaps I do it out of shame. Shame about the person I am. Maybe I am ashamed of where I am and what I'm doing; or, rather, shame over where I'm not and what I'm not doing. It has gotten to the point where I lie down at bed and open my journal and have nothing to write, for these tear-stained pages bear repetition after repetition, and to write anymore would only be to fill countless pages with what has already been written. And on top of this, I get the privilege of fighting against innumerable thoughts that assail me in my every waking moment; and to give heed to these thoughts chips away my strength and my resolve, and I find myself walking those dark haunts where only the forbidden lies. I look up to Heaven and cry out for help, but another year has come without an answer, and I fear in another year there will be nothing new to write home about. Maybe I should pray more. But to be honest, I am praying less.