Was it hope that kept me going through the decades of blackness, of addiction and mental illness?
Was it that, as Emily D. said about hope, “I’ve heard it in the chilliest land.” That thing that “never stops – at all,” as she defined it.
Was it hope, or was it grit and slog-through? God knows there was a lot of slogging. Was it hope: that sense inside me that “There must be something better than this.”
…And there was…would that be hope realized? The flight of the feathered Phoenix?
Was it hope?
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