Hope is the oldest dream of all; the dream of a better tomorrow is one every man has felt. Sometimes all we have is hope, and in those days we cling to it like a drowning man. Even when we know it will do nothing, it is better to die standing, howling in pain as we bleed from our grip on the razor-sharp edge, than go quietly into the dark, whimpering.

I will hope, always.

I will cling to that hope, even when days are bleak, when the moon goes dark and the air is cold; I will hold on to that edge. No matter the pain of what it brings, I will scream into the void until I can no longer draw breath to yell.

I will hope, always.

Sometimes it's hard to go on moving, but then I ask myself, if I give in now, what was the point? Do I prove my doubters right? Do I cave to the gnawing hunger of hopelessness? Or do I go on, a bold-faced liar in the face of everything?

Of course I do.

I'll be damned if I let this be the end of me.