The Futility of Hope

Poetry, art, music, and nature have a unique way of giving us access to what may best be described as the Divine. These mediums bleed outside the realm of rationality, granting access to speak to our soul, in the darkest of times, and can reach places that even our loved ones cannot.

Life is a beautiful dame. She carries with her love and hope, and dreams. However, she was born alongside an evil twin. Its nature was that of darkness and suffering. Over the last few years, my mental health had rapidly declined, and I could only see the chains of life without any of its flowers. I only saw the evil twin. I found little hope. During this time, I found utility and comfort in poetry. A bridge between word and song, it gave me avenues to portray life's horrors where conversations failed to go. When the devil and his demons were all I could see, poetry provided a melody I could dance to.

Being in the company of fallen angels is something I would not wish upon anyone. However, when in Rome, one must learn the best way to survive. Mankind often cringes when an individual names the devil that torments. We take comfort in keeping evils in a nameless fog, asserting that "he who must not be named" is better than "Voldemort." However, a monster without a name is more powerful than he is in reality—the fear created by the willful blindness bestows more power to the beast than he actually has.

For this reason, learning to dance with the devil—christening the suffering through poetry, music, painting, or personification in story—can be an empowering exercise. (It is worth noting that there are also pitfalls with these practices. For myself, an unhealthy romanticism of the darkness sprouted alongside the empowerment. This temptation to fall in love with one's own suffering was something I found difficult to resist.)

Below is one of the poems I wrote during some of my darkest moments. I want to preface a few things in advance. The song opens with a callous attack on the sins of the church. During my journey with depression, my heart toward the church and God oscillated between indifference and bitterness - feelings sprouting from my conclusion that the alleged loving God had failed to show any love toward me. I mention this to point out why the obvious pathology (and arguably the weakest part of the poem) shows up. While I have yet to find any personal solace in religion or God, I believe the denigration of something that stitches millions of people worldwide together (though it, of course, does do the opposite as well) should have been done more cautiously. It does not take much upstanding character to consider child rape evil. This is why I find the opening to be the weakest part of the exercise. Finally, it is worth noting—as I have stated in my previous writings—I no longer believe hope should be abandoned. I believe it is essential to survive and must be tended to. I share this poem only with this prologue attached. There are valid reasons to become nihilistic, but its romanticism is poisonous. I believe in life. I believe in love. I believe in hope. Below is a song from a time that I did not.

—GCF, August 14, 2022

Hope is such a dangerous toy,

It fills churches and pews,

With little girls and young boys,

And when all the saints that the building employs,

Put hands on those children, the Vicar acts coy;

He says with conviction, and vigor, and joy,

"It is the hope of salvation,

It is still yet to come,

Let's be gracious to sinners,

Remember the depth you rose from,

Let's forgive all the saints to which we give our income,

For our hope is in He Who says He will come."

Just not quite in time to save kids from the slum.

---

Hope is such a dangerous view,

It makes you believe that the false can be true,

That dark could be light,

That what's good could be you;

It smiles right at you with sunlight and joy,

It beckons you saying,

"Come play with this toy;

For we never would lie, stop being so coy,

We are light, we are love, we are Helen of Troy.

Remember your dreams, all you thought life could be,

Remember the smiles you had at age three,

When your time with your mother was all you could see,

Before the pain and the darkness overshadowed your glee.

Come, listen to us,

Hold onto our hand,

We'll tell you the dreams of conquering lands,

And say what you wish will be our command,

And if what you have asked for sifts right through your hands,

Like oceans of water, or deserts of sand,

Do not deny us, you cannot forsake,

For losing your hope is your biggest mistake,

So, when life becomes what you can no longer take,

When your tears start to flow,

When your heart starts to break,

Remember you need us,

Every time that you wake,

For if you let go,

Your life is at stake.

So, listen to us,

Please hear out our plea,

For if you do not,

There's no you and no me."

---

Hope is such a dangerous friend,

It tries to call you out further, 'til the darkest of ends,

Even when you have lost her,

She calls out your name,

And asks you to join her,

"Things won't be the same."

But you cannot forget that you have played out her game,

Wherever you walked,

You found life made you lame,

Your family broke you and shattered your aim,

You found bread became tasteless,

And water the same,

You found love and her wonders had died out in flame,

You found the things that had meaning became things that brought shame.

---

To hope is such a dangerous task,

Its roots reach hells chambers,

It's wonders don't last,

It is like remnants of wood-fire,

Its true nature is ash,

It's the knife that digs deepest,

It is your father en masse,

It's the naive proposal of flowers and grass,

But the fields that exist are of thistles and glass,

Harsh words from your father,

And gold turned to brass,

Where all that you wanted and thought that would last,

Shows its face of what's dead; no longer with us; that which has passed.

---

Hope is such a dangerous dame,

Do not look in her eyes,

Medusa's her name,

For stone is all that she brings with her fame,

Because life is all shadows, and fire, and flame.

Do not look in her eyes,

She is all you despise,

She's all that you wanted but, in a disguise,

She brings you to your knees - or a ladder - where tears fill your eyes,

Where you hope Newton's discovery will end your demise.

So, promise me, friend,

Before we say our goodbyes,

Pick Barabas, not Jesus,

And choose that she dies.