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.