The value of Hope.

For once the path looks sunny and inviting, instead of gloomy and depressing.

If there is anything I have learned in these past few months is that sometimes reaching the state of total hopelessness is the best way to regain hope.

This is quite paradoxal, I know, but allow me to explain:

As humans, we can be either optimists or pessimists. This defines our outlook on life and how we handle problems.

Also, problems may alter the way we look at things. This is what happened to me. I started out as an optimist but successive kicks in the gut by that bitch called life hardened me and transformed me into something I didn’t — and sometimes I still don’t — recognize.

The key word here is ‘transformed’; we may be transformed by life, but our deep inner nature, fight it as much as we can, remains dormant, waiting to show it’s true colors.

I am sure this is not always the case, but I see pessimist people as ‘Why should I even bother’ types, people who give up before even trying. And this was me for quite a while. I felt trapped and hurt.

This is when my true colors came to my rescue.

One of my friends made me a frame with some of our pictures and the sentence ‘I see your true colors’. It’s hanging right in my hallway, it’s the first thing I see when I came home.

I started thinking about it. About my true colors. About what I had achieved so far. About the struggles I faced. What I learned. What I wish I hadn’t learned the hard way. The people that make me happy. The people that made me miserable. The times I was about to quit but never did.

What I realized is that as close as I ever was of quit writing, I never did. I always found a way to get back to it or keep doing it in a different way.

I am definitely less pessimistic. But I am still not back to my old optimistic self. Still, it was good to discover there is still some fight in me.

Quoting one of my favorites by Robert Frost:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though; 
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.