Hopeful, Hopeless

I'm not sure which is worse.

On one hand, hopeful is so enticing.  It's that bubbly feeling in the hollows of your chest, eager to get out.  A spring in your step.  A smile that won't fade.  It's a glass half full and a sunrise in all its glory.  It's strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream, but it doesn't have any calories.  It's wonderful.

Until you crash.

And oh, the crash.  The waves.  The internal beating of a saddened heart.  The sunset and clouds and rain.  The beautiful misery. 

But hopeless - that's another story.  It's never expecting, from the start.  It's convincing and being convinced that dreams are only pictures.  It's empty sounds and endless nights and sheets that feel too cold no matter how long you've been in them.  It's the long, dark corridor of night.

With hopeless there is always the small, sad possibility that you might just be surprised.  It tickles the back of your mind.  But, mostly, it reminds.  It foretells.  It scolds. 

In the empty, fading hours it's hard to distinguish the two. 

Hopeful.

Hopeless.

Both, so hard.