To me, hope was an open wound. A form of vulnerability. Hope was waiting with the door ajar. Hope was looking for rescue. It was weak, because it was dependent. Dependent on the arrival of someone or something else. A savior, a miracle, a change. But despair. Despair was strength. Despair was the scab and the scar. The walled city in a time of plague. A closed fortification. A sure thing, because it was always safer, less painful to stop trying than it was to repeatedly try and fail. Failure — disappointment — was a poison in my blood. Despair was the antidote.
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submitted by ThusSpokeLaz, August 4, 2011
Norah Vincent - My Year Lost and Found in the Loony Bin
This quote was added September 30, 2009.