In a room filled with laughter, cries and tantrums of my children, I sat there wandering off to a place where life was good. I sat and watched as birds flew by the window wondering if they have issues of their own. I looked outside and one can only hope that in the silence beneath my screaming mind, my prayers are heard.
Hope means nothing to me now. Hope is an empty feeling. Hope is a jar filled with nothingness but air. Tense air, heavy air. Tiny particles made up of all my worries and anxiety of the future and what it has in store for my children. Hope means nothing. Hope is nothing. Hope is not a promise. Hope is just hope.
What will happen to my children if I die? What will happen to them? Will they be able to cope? Will they be able to move on? Will they hope to see me in their dreams when they sleep at night?
I hope I live long enough to be able to provide for my children things I have imagined and hoped to give them before I rest. I hope I live long enough to make sure that I don’t leave anything behind that could be a burden to anyone associated to me in this life – biologically or not.
My mind is pregnant with thoughts.
I just simply feel hopeless.