Hope Can Be a Dark Thing, too.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

By Emily Dickinson

'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.

This is a poem I was studying in English class one fine, depressing day.

When I felt like giving up.

"Oh, you can't be that hopeless, hun. Don't give up!"

But... do people, in extremity, really lose hope?

Do people who commit suicide really not just hope for a release?
Do they not end their own lives to end the misery that paints every day the same dreary color?
After all, death makes up for a whole lot of sleepless nights spent crying, spiraling, and whatnot.

Hope is an angel.
So was the Devil.

Hope, in general, is a positive term.
A glowing orb in the darkness of life that leads us on, teasing us with the prospect of making it out of the twilit woods whose shadows seem a bit too odd.
But what if human perception makes out what hope is for them?

One might think hope is leading them towards an escape — to civilization, to people, out of the frightening woods. 

Another might think hope is showing them a way to just end the suffering.
Even if it meant ending themselves. 

Hope is a matter of human perception.
And human perception can be — and is —very dark.

Yes, hope is the core of resilience, of perseverance.
It is also the core of giving it all up for something perceptively better.

Hope's duality is incredible. It could either save you, or kill you.
But would it really matter, if, for you, it meant an escape?
If, for you, hope led you to victory — no matter how horrifyingly so?