I don’t know what words exist to describe the emptiness that lives inside me now. I had done what I could to push away hope because there are no good options, this year. But only this morning did I remember hopelessness. 

Hopelessness is the void that lives inside your chest and threatens every breath you draw into your lungs. It will eat everything; happiness, sadness, anger, fear, love. 

Pandora’s box, made empty, is filled with hopelessness and that box is made of the ribs and flesh of everyone who woke this morning and found themselves in a nightmare. 

Hopelessness is not knowing if you reach the other side of the mountain, after you have crawled into its belly of darkness because it is the only way forward. It is stale, damp air, and no hint of fresh air, no movement, no light. It is the loneliness that makes every person afraid. 

Last night, we clung to one another, my friends and me. Because when faced with that darkness, that loneliness, we know that the only thing that can invite hope back home, that can convince it to fill us once again with light, is the warmth of human flesh. 

Hopelessness is cold, and even when it weakens our spirits, our bodies are still warm. The only thing that can save us, that can begin to make us whole, is to remember that we are not alone.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

––Emily Dickinson