Just for a few minutes. Not literally.
The way things look is undeniable.
The more we look, the more we see. And it’s still undeniable.
But behind it all. Between shadows and flickers of distraction, is some other thing, a gossamer lighthouse, impossible and tall.
I don’t know what other shapes it has; only the ones I’ve seen: It’s the desperate hope that the way something looks is not the way it will be. Will be tomorrow. Will wake up. Will have some greater meaning.
Hope is a spark that flares inside a broken heart and hides before the faceless winds of a disinterested time, that cycles and turns but never brings us back to the source of that indefinable, indefatigable longing for something that was. Is no more.
Step outside. Ignore the world. Ignore what happened. Ignore what you know. Hope.
And when you step back inside, and the world crashes in like a drowning man demanding air: It’s ok. It’ll be there when you step outside again.
