We spend so much of our waking lives hanging on to hope. Either in pursuit of it, or in trying many different ways to hold on to it, lest it slips away, as it is known to.
Hope is the last few speckles of life, in a fast-fading flicking blue screen of death. The grains that buzz around together, even when life slowly drains away from around them.
Hope is blinding, sometimes. The white, bright light that hits you head-on, making it hard to see what lies in the periphery.
Hope is beautiful, like the beginning of a sunrise. A pink kissed sky, an inky mess of colours that we refuse to call anything but beautiful.
If hope is bewildered look on my face, acceptance is the placid smile on yours.
On days when it seems like everything is working all the power it can to make every little step you take, or every move in a particular direction feel useless, we have a word for that too. Hopeless.
But it’s an inaccurate description. I doubt the hope ever disappears. It just makes way for a tired kind of acceptance. Like the silvery strands of hair that begin to sprout, acceptance makes its way, trying hard to blend in effortlessly, in a sea of black hope that throbbing silently in the background.
Acceptance is the peace that takes over when the cacophony of all too many thoughts has died down. When that party is over, and the frenzied guests have left, someone does that tidying up. Someone restores peace. And sanity. That someone is acceptance.
Hope is the yearning for flowers, when all you have is a gentle bud, closed like tightly pursed lips that refuse to smile. Acceptance is knowing that a bud will bloom, much like the smile will light up the room. In its time and not a moment sooner.