The hopeless sort of love is almost always the helpless sort of love, the desperate sort of love.
After all, it takes a whole heart of love to practice hope, to see light at the end of a tunnel which in reality, probably doesn’t end at all..
Some mornings see me waking up lost, feeling foolish, kicking myself mentally for not being strong enough to be able to push all that useless love away.
Some mornings bring along a blinding ray of hope. They say everything falls into place one day, they must be wise. I remind myself that all I have to do now is sit tight with my box of hope until my ‘one day’ arrives.
Some mornings open that intimidating chest of questions, the one I keep locked away in the most unreachable corner of my brain. What if at the very end, it’s not worth the wait? Where will I find a brand new box of hope that’ll help me start afresh? What if there is no new box of hope?
Some mornings find me revising the chapter of ‘how to live a life of no expectations’. I know it by heart now but have barely been able to learn the art. How do they ‘live in the moment’? Where’s the hope in not having anything to look forward to? Maybe they’re not so wise after all.
Though the one thing that seems constant about my days and nights is how I stupidly smile to myself, each time I picture us at the end of the tunnel. We’re happy, I see that clearly. This happens so often now, I like to call it my ‘hope recharge’.
How ironic is it that the hopeless ones in love are the most hopeful? The ones who fully embrace the bitter truth of love — the fact that it doesn’t come with a guarantee card.
Because after all, what’s love if not uncertain?