I had a dream last night, a dream that seemed so real, a dream I did not want. A dream of scattered memories sewn together, creating such a perfect world, where love was requited, where I was blissfully happy. When I awoke, everything I had was gone.
All I was left with was hope, and emptiness. I immediately knew that what I had was false, too perfect a world for me to live in. I felt bitter, as if I had something taken away from me which I felt was rightfully mine.
Why would my subconscious trick me so? Why should I feel so terrible, so laden with hope? Couldn’t my mind simply give up this struggle, freely, without interference?
Hope is not a good thing for me. It makes me weak and vulnerable. When I have no hope, then all is known. Nothing is uncertain. I am sure of what I have and what I don’t have. Progress can be made on accepting this. But when hope enters my mind, all progress is lost, and I can only try to fight for what I’ve gained.
Yet I wish to dream again tonight, of memories strewn together, for they were so wonderful, that any let down seems worth it. I don’t know why I’d want to torture myself again, feeling empty and bitter when I wake up. Somehow, the high seems worth it, like some addictive drug Pandora was selling out of her magical box of plagues and death.
Perhaps I actually do believe in what my hope is telling me. Perhaps I need to believe in something, that somehow this will change, that things will be different. Or perhaps I’m simply a fool, willingly falling for something that may make me happy, but empty in the end.
Nothing good ever came out of Pandora’s box.