What is Hope, I ask myself. A senseless illusion that should mean something. I wish I could write when I am happier but happiness seems like a lie most days. I mean, why not? There is so much to cry about; so much to scream about. Just when you think things are getting better, life stabs you in your gut and it hurts even if it is not your own skin. I want to weep and roll into a ball that can never untangle itself; that goes through life just hugging itself. At least that would help, right? I don’t know what this is supposed to mean. What stupidity posting this online, what is the point, who even cares for each other’s ramblings. Sometimes, I think we shouldn’t care about each other’s ramblings because no matter how happy you are, there is someone breaking around you. This happiness is never fair, and to feel happy in your happiness seems like the most selfish and insensitive thing to do. So what do we do? How do we navigate through this perpetual human suffering? Through hope, you say.

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