I may live on until
I long for this time
In which I am so unhappy,
And remember it fondly.
~ Fujiwara No Kiyosuke
When I said I was adapting to hopelessness, I meant it. To be hopeless, in essence, is not so bad. Hopelessness is a scrap of ground in a flat field, and you can't leave, but that's all right; there is nowhere to go. In time you begin to notice the shifting light, gradations of gray, patterns in the drizzling rain. You can let your mind wander there; there is nothing more to keep it tethered.
What hopelessness is not, is heartache. Heartache is a whole 'nother story. Heartache is as caustic as acid, a cruelly inflicted wound. Heartache makes you despise what you are, the way love makes you love you. It pulls you close just to hit you harder. It makes you wonder what you did to deserve it.
Heartache steals from you, too. You find yourself flinching at what was once beautiful. It makes you regret every smile. That's the hardest part, I think. Having to be ashamed of what makes you most vulnerable.
No, give me hopelessness over heartache every time. It doesn't accept, but neither does it reject. A disinterested companion who at least never pretends. So let me look into my non-future and see nothing. It's not the life I would have chosen, but better than a life of wishes that won't come true.
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