“Humph. Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.”
The Architect, The Matrix: Reloaded
Hope gets us through impossible times, when the challenge is or appears to be completely impossible to overcome. That’s why it’s so big in fairy tales, hero journeys and romance novels.
The reality is that Hope is a crutch. It’s a surrendering to the situation or the perpetrators or the universe or God or whatever external force you believe is controlling the situation, and investing the last of ones emotional resources that even vaguely resemble positivity or optimism into the outcome being decided by others.
And yet it is powerful.
Hope becomes a security blanket. A safe place. Your cave. Your mothers embrace. A warm doona on a chilly Sunday morning. Your favorite t-shirt or pair of Chuck Taylors or Levis.
Whatever comfort zone you get the most relief from, that’s where your most desperate hope lives. And he’s always got the kettle boiled and ready for a long cosy cuppa.
Or a few beers.
So as fucked up as this all sounds, what was key in the process of my experience with Hope was my abandonment of any type of belief that I could prevent the experience or in any way affect it’s operations or outcome. And so I surrendered, as a psychological survival technique, to the hope that the story was eventually going to end, and just waited it out.
That was Hope, messaging me to come over and hang out.
And it wasn’t until the day I believed that to be the case (or believed it enough) that I found the focus and strength to take my life back. Until then Hope kept filling up the kettle with that hallucinogenic home brew of his and telling stories.
Hope is a useless cunt.
Without Hope, there is a certain level of acceptance.
As sentient beings we need a thought position on everything we have perceived. We need as position cause we have perspective, and perspective is firmly rooted to the position from which we are perceiving. It’s physics. It’s that split atom experiment. its Schrodingers Cat.
Hope clouds that perspective. Hope is like those heavily-lidded eyes you get when you lie infront of a fire. Hope surrenders the need for acute perception cause Hope has stories, that we can close our eyes and just let wash over us, sometimes no more than the inaudible burble of the adults in Peanuts.
Hope is a fucking liar.
The thing with Hope, is he’s really a nasty piece of work. Like, Moriarty nasty. Like, Moriarty in the new Sherlock Holmes series starring Khan & Bilbo Baggins. An unpredictable smart-arse who swings between sociopath and psychopath (depending on who is around) and who revels in “I told you so” moments like a toddler my revel in their first shit in a grown up toilet.. Keep away from children type of individual. Like I said, I real fucking cunt.
Hope will always defeat you cause Hope can see the you outside of you, and tell you whatever stories you need to hear. Whatever bullshit is the path of least resistance between you and hugging your childhood teddy bear, that’s what Hope spits at you when you first collapse down on Hope’s couch. Then once you’ve fully settled in, while you’re about to slip from heavy-lidded-fire-side-eyes to the land of nod, Hope wakes you up by sticking your hand in cold water after shaving your eyebrows.
Hope is an arrogant cunt.
If you’re going to bet the farm on Hope, you could end up buying your eggs at the supermarket before long.
So what the fuck then?
So it wasn’t until that last glimmer of Hope finally died that anything could change. The most desperate, emotionally dead version of the once so vibrant trickster just didn’t show up one day . And so no more distraction, no more easy-fix-clever-quip-vague-metaphoric-immaturely-optimistic-self-involved opinions and stories and advice.
And then everything changed.
Obstacles got smaller. That was the first thing. And they were always that small, but at the time so was I and so, again, perspective won.
Thinking began returning to a more lucid and controllable state… less encumbered and most definitely easier to control.
Without that fuckwit Hope and his squad forever adding their 2 cents, thinking became closer to how I remember thinking used to be. Like, more free flowing. Like water going through a fjord. Controllable, at least to a substantially higher point than I had experienced for more than 3 years.
Hope does’t give a fuck about you. Never, ever forget that.