Tag: hope in darkness

  • Stay

    Some nights

    the world gets too loud

    inside your head—

    every thought

    echoing,

    every memory

    sharper than it should be.

    And there’s a door there—

    not a real one,

    but close enough

    to feel like an option.

    It whispers easy answers.

    Shortcuts.

    Silence.

    And for a moment—

    just a moment—

    it feels like relief.

    But there’s another voice too.

    Quieter.

    Not convincing.

    Not strong.

    Just there.

    The one that says

    wait.

    Not forever.

    Not fix everything.

    Just—

    stay.

    Stay through this hour.

    Through this breath.

    Through the part

    that feels unbearable

    right now.

    Because feelings lie

    about how long they last.

    Because the version of you

    that made it this far

    didn’t do it

    by accident.

    Because even now—

    with everything heavy,

    everything blurred—

    you are still here.

    And that matters

    more than anything

    the dark is trying

    to tell you.

    So don’t decide tonight.

    Don’t close the door

    on something

    that might still change.

    Just stay.

  • Hanging on Hope

    I don’t hold hope

    like something certain.

    I hold it

    like the edge of a cliff—

    fingers raw,

    arms shaking,

    refusing to let go

    even when the wind

    tries to reason with me.

    Hope isn’t bright.

    It isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t always feel

    like faith.

    Sometimes

    it feels like defiance.

    Like saying

    not yet

    to the dark.

    Like choosing

    one more breath

    when the weight in my chest

    argues otherwise.

    There are days

    it thins to a thread—

    barely visible,

    barely strong enough

    to carry my name.

    But I’ve learned something

    about threads.

    They tangle.

    They knot.

    They hold

    more than they look like they can.

    I am hanging on hope

    not because I’m fearless,

    not because I’m sure,

    but because I’ve seen

    what happens

    when I let go.

    And I am not ready

    to fall back

    into the version of me

    that mistook surrender

    for peace.

    So I grip it—

    this quiet, stubborn thing.

    Even if it frays.

    Even if it burns my palms.

    Even if all I have

    is the smallest whisper

    that tomorrow

    might not feel

    like today.

    Sometimes survival

    isn’t a leap of faith.

    Sometimes

    it’s just

    refusing

    to unclench

    your hands.