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[solwashere]

a little bit of hope

People have told me I’m emotionally diarrhetic. That my emotions are free and open and unforgiving like blood from the gash of a wound. That I feel, and express that feeling without fear or joy, but rather with indifference, as if that is how it always has been and will be, how i face the world with a sly grin and a blade in one hand, to defy the dullness of society and be blunt with how my heart loves and joys, and feels pain. In reality, I am only diarrhetic to the extent of happy emotions; the sky on a cloudless day, early mornings and late nights, I am never afraid to say that I love, that I care, that I wish you were there and could hug you tight to my chest like the pressure as an aluminium can crushes under vacuum. 

I have, from the start, always seen this act as honesty. It is honesty to show when you are happy, to show that you do feel hope, if only some. It is brutal honesty to be positive. To admit that beneath the realities and harshness of the modern world, in us still lies a shred, a sliver, of humanity. Humanity that naively believes and hopes and dreams that even though there may be tough times, we are down to the ground with our knuckles bleeding and a tired black circle around the curve of one eye; that we will get back up again. I believe it is firmly in human nature to be hopeful, to search for the silver lining. Perceive it as naivety, as being stubborn or unrealistic or immature; but we always believe within one percent of a chance that there is hope for us, simply because it is in our interests to believe that things will go our way. In being positive, in being hopeful and a little delusional we show our honesty and faith; and most importantly are vulnerable in our humanity. 

Really, sometimes I feel like I suppress negative emotions. Like every little negative thing is pushed back down like stuffing clothes into an overfilled suitcase, hoping to be able to close the zipper. A struggle for sure, but with an easy smile and determination one can continue on with life, chucking it into the boot and heading for the next flight out. And then out if comes, when the flight is over and there is no attendant to check the weight on a scaler toss it up onto the overhead compartments, just you and your suitcase on the carpeted, crusty floor of a three star hotel; clothes spread over the bed with a determined insurgency, socks astray under the wooden frame and suitcase still hurling over with a stream of fabrics, as if magically enchanted to have an endless volume. Really, if you keep it all inside and then wrap it up with a chain and a lock and a key, and it rattles inside you with growing momentum that when you let it out again it’s reaching something close to the speed of light and you just can’t comprehend where it came from or how it happened. 

But honestly no one can see if your angry or sad, or god forbid, both, because really you are always reaching up for the beacon of light, the holy silver lining in a cloudless sky, and with an outstretched hand and a beat of wings like Icarus you fly up off the ground. And no one can really tell you were made to walk with legs, when the wind in your hair and the feathers look so natural, like you were born an airborne being; perhaps alone arae up against the clouds, seeking vengeance at apollo for your fate. Really, they don’t even see that you had been reaching up into the heat, flames tearing at your wings and smell of burning wax, a candle to your death, until they start to melt and you left with just yourself, a wound in a heart that loves and gives and lives, and the silver lining is just grey with a tinge of sweet, sweet rose, and with a grin, you fall.