He dug into her history, pouring over posts and likes and tweets, searching for some validation that the flawless, fabricated image of his paramour was in fact reality. All he found were snippets of her personality, stinging him like daggers, focused shocks to the heart.
"trying to be(more) on my best behavior. oops. #drunk"
The anxiety rose in him. 140 characters and a lack of context can cause a horrible reaction in a person with a low stress threshold. The cool whiskey and diet coke mixture poured down his throat and he scrolled on, self-flagellating himself by subjecting himself to a trip down a memory lane, mostly the result of his conjecture.
"@philphilly don't worry, there's nooooo way I can get pregnant"
His hand trembled, and a text alert on his phone cause him to nearly jump out of his seat. Stress narrows the vision, makes the borders fuzzy, as epinephrine forces your heart to beat faster, your breaths to come more frequently and shallower. His mind kept whispering horrible thoughts he hoped weren't true, showing him realities or possibilities or half-truths that seemed to scream, "she is not perfect."
"heyyyyy boys #tipsy #rum"
He closed the browser, pacing frantically, sending a 4th text that she probably wouldn't respond to, like the last 3. She was going to break up with him. It was obvious. They'd see each other at work every day, and he'd hear about her and all the new guys she was getting drunk with and making out with. Reality began to slip away when the phone dinged again.
"Hey baby! I miss you! I was in the shower, what's up?"
Hope replaced fear, at least, for today. He sat down, took another drink, and responded.(less)
A candle burning soft.
Long tongues of flame licking
the belly of the night.
Hopes or dreams or thinly veiled wishes
have long forgotten me.
My mind races and halts at random stops
(more) like a train that lost its way.
Daydreamed visions through the window
of sunny, summer days.
Of love, of breath
of gentle eyes
that quietly drift away.
Damned fools should have taken heed of the instructors' directions to stay clear of the steep cliff, but these stubborn and exhausted teens refused to march another few hundred feet to a safe distance away from the loose rocks and boulders looming perilously overhead and lear(more)ned their fucking lesson. All of them could have, and for what it's worth, definitely should have been crushed to death under the immense weight of the Rocky Mountains. Fortunately, only one casualty was had...
I pressed onto Austin's leg above his kneecap with the all the strength my small hands could muster, fighting his body to prevent him from bleeding out of the gaping wounds on his mangled leg. Exhausted from the sprint uphill at an altitude of thirteen-hundred feet, I struggled to focus and to never loose my hands from his leg or he would die in minutes. I tried not to look at the pool of blood leaching into the soil, into my backpack being used to prop his leg up, his pieces of sock that I had to cut off with scissors, his pants, and on my gloved hands.
After several hours, the sun set and the temperature dropped harshly and I could see my breath in front of my LED lamp floating away in the breeze and he had stopped moaning in pain and been a pitiful stupor. I started to become hungry and fatigued myself; I haven't moved at all the whole time, but I knew if I were to let go of him he would not wake. My hands ached, and I was starting to lose hope, when another somebody I had least expected to help had come up to switch off with me.
He lived, but lost his leg. Haven't heard from him in years...
Hope is a funny thing. It doesn't seem to be particularly useful or admirable. It is by definition a passive act, a desire for a certain outcome without any definitive action.
Of course, it can be lumped into the same category of thinking as prayer and wishing an(more)d positive thinking. Do these things actually effect us at all? I am sure we all like to think that somehow, deep in our psyche it does.
I always bet on 36 in roulette. And as the little white ball spins and bounces, I silently beg to some unknown force that 36 comes up. I am not a religious person, I have no belief in any sort of higher power that has control over such trivial things (there might be something up or out there, but is neither here nor there).
I know that my silent hope, my determination in such random, uncontrollable events is pointless. I might as well put on a blindfold and throw my chips on the table for all it is worth. But something innately inside cannot separate the determination I have between things I can control and the things I can't.
There is a danger apparent in blind hope, just as there is in faith, of disconnection from real action, and using it as an excuse for not truly engaging. I know that we are all guilty of feeling sorry for the starving, only to continue eating our Doritos. Feel outrage at global issues, only to never take them further than our Facebook pages. It's comfortable. It's easy. It's quite frankly a but scary.
Yet, I think hope is optimism. It is trying and failing, and having belief that things can go the right way with enough effort. It's about not giving up. Just don't forget real action.(less)
I hope you know a guy who can get us out alive. Who can light fires in the dark. Who can punch 'em off till they're black and blue. Who will say no lie too smart, nor speak easy truths. Cause this is a moment I could use a(more) guy like that.(less)
Hope is a friend. A liberator and guardian.
Some mornings it greets me with a warm embrace and encouraging whispers. It shows me glimpses of who I want to be. It reminds me of who I need to be. It gives my life meaning.
And yet some days...
(more) Hope is my enemy. A betrayer and jailor. She holds the keys to my contentment, and keeps them to herself. Sometimes I wish I could murder her, and free myself from her disappointment. To live without cruel hope is to live without fear. But like a child reaching in vain for the cookie jar, I would be left with nothing if I did not try.(less)
I looked up, through the swirling dust of the ancient tunnel, and saw light. The end was near. There is still hope to make it. I heard more rustling, and several thumps, and knew that the tunnel was collapsing behind. The ancient wonders of the hidden city will never(more) be known again. Buried beneath layers upon layers of earth. I ran, knowing I must make it. The thumping was growing nearer. I reached the end of the tunnel almost simultaneously with the tunnel collapsing, and leapt out. Straight out of the side of the mountain. The last thing I thought was 'The secret shall be kept, for all of eternity.'(less)
The winds howl, and the rain falls. I see you, palm against the window, shivering.The tears fall, you hope you can one day feel the rain again, fall on your hair, your face. The creaking downstairs never stops, as it grows louder, our hearts beat, and your rapid breath(more) etched against the window. I walk towards you, and see you turn to meet me. As you slam through the window, the cacophony continues. You hope it's fast. (less)
While I sat on the stool pondering the recent turbulent weeks of my life, while watching this little white ball, I couldn't help but think, 'Are some people just lucky or do we make our own luck?'.
It was difficult to come to any positive conclusion because the past(more) few weeks couldn't have been much worse in terms of bad luck.
Today is my birthday and there's a very real chance that this croupier is going to be my party pooper or my saviour. What's it going to be?
It started on the 17th of last month when a cyclist failed to stop at the red knowles juction and I ran into him with my car. The solicitors letter arriving this morning stating that I was at fault and that I was potentially being charged with dangerous driving.
The same day Alice came home and stated "It's just not working". I knew that day was coming so it was only a matter of time.
So she left the next day only for me to find out that she's moved in with Jeremy Black, who just happens to be our ex-boss at the previous company.
Worse was to come last week when my favorite uncle Ernie electrocuted himself while installing a security camera at the new cheese factory on the outskirts of town. Unfortuntately they've ceased production until they can confirm that the vat is uncontaminated at the place where he fell.
At the funeral on Monday my mother jumped into the grave at the distress of it all. Two other family members fell in trying to prevent her, my cousion Eric breaking his arm.
The wheel slows, the ball bounces around.
I place all my chips on one single bet.
There was still hope.