hope

Though the world is dying, every night I have dreams where everything is beautiful again. By day I never have much hope. Things are getting worse all the time now, but we've stopped paying attention to the news. Some days it feels like we're just waiting for death to come, but others, we try to scrape by, to put enough aside for the dark days.

It wouldn't be worth it if it wasn't for the nights, when it's dark and there's only us, hands digging into each other's skin like the whole world might slip away if we let go. And maybe it will. We don't talk. There's no room for words at night. Eventually we lay still and there's silence, and when I sleep I dream.

For a long time, the dreams kept me going. I thought, so long as someone remembers the world when it was so wonderful, maybe we can make things better eventually. We'd find a way to put the world to rights. But time wore on and nothing changed, except for the worse. And that hope took on a sour taste.

She told me when we first began that it was a false hope. She told me to pray for a dreamless sleep. I thought I pitied her for that at first, but eventually I loved her for it. But the dreams kept coming. You can never kill hope.