It is impossible to discern what may have gone wrong. Was I living too long on oatmeal and cotton candy? I struggle to drag myself beyond the confines of my hermitage, where it is clear I have stayed too long. I can only hope that tomorrow I shall be strong enough for my daily labor, and shall be able to put aside both despair and longing.

Why so soon must appear the thwarting of hope that threatened to burst so brightly despite all attempts to temper it?

I'm discovering for my own part that happiness can be a matter of the choosing. And that personal inclinations are not fixed, but malleable entities, which are capable of significant twists, even complete double-backs when the occasion calls for it. A person can choose to like something they were once not so enthusiastic about, and it would seem that the converse is also true--that a person can choose to dislike, or at least to shun, something they once thought adamantly they could not do without. Eventually the choosing, which begins as an awkward struggle to bend oneself in a direction seemingly contrary to the natural grain, in the right circumstances, can produce and cultivate positive sensations so natural, that one would wonder--and often does--exactly where the point of struggle was. Why was it so difficult to choose that which would have ultimately been the remedy for so much striving?

I fear that I talk too much. I do this mostly when I'm nervous, anxious, or otherwise stressed, but anymore, it has practically become the norm. It's as though I'm frantic to be heard--to be understood. But, then I panic with the sudden realization that I'd far rather not be fully understood. I'd far rather cherish my secrets and magic than have them vulgarly laid open before the gaze of all.

A wise person speaks but little, and does not feel so intensely the need to be understood, if indeed at all. I know I am far from wise, and forgive myself for it, and yet, I wish to be wise.

Sin is but missing the mark. I am, at once, not as I should be, and yet everything I am able to be at this time. One day, I shall know better, and shall not strive so any longer. One day, I shall know balance.

Reason's inexorable commentary causes Emotion to shudder--to cower and cringe in humiliation. Emotion begs mercy of Reason, but Reason points to fact and past proofs, and in their harsh, unforgiving light, Emotion can only concede, though with heavy heart and weary feet.

Hope flees witless and starving.

Every second of every day, it's already over. It's been and done and gone. This moment, alone, is all there is.

Relinquish, relinquish, my dear. It is to your destruction you would cling.

It may be difficult, but you must set it to one side, dear. Not forget, per se--that would likely be impossible--but as though for safe keeping. Or better, like a delicacy that is best savored after a long wait.

Go about your life. What else is there to do?

Hope without expectation conjures up images of birds without wings or ships without sails. How can hope be made more than abstract without hoping for something. Hope without the thought of an object—a goal, is vain indeed. Empty wind, buoying . . . nothing.

But then, where is the hope of hope, when the reality of disappointed expectation thwarts its bright trajectory? Is hope merely the belief in that which is good, surviving against all odds? Or is it of the fourth dimension—a suffused but indirect light scattered over the nebulous, ever-receding future?

Or, is it simply the taking of joy in each step: the bursting juice of berries, warm feathery breezes, sunshine smiles? Is hope merely the belief that the world will continue to be there, when we wake up in the morning, and that there will still be loveliness in it to enjoy?