Darkover
Archangel
- Jul 29, 2021
- 5,040
Hope is the cruelest illusion. A dangling carrot that keeps the weary moving, the suffering enduring, the lost believing that just beyond the horizon, salvation awaits. It whispers that tomorrow will be better, that the pain will pass, that if one just holds on a little longer, happiness will come. But tomorrow arrives, and the suffering remains. The weight is not lifted. The wounds do not heal. And yet, hope compels us to crawl forward, chasing a future that never comes.
This is the prison of existence: the endless waiting for something that will never truly arrive. The perfect love, the fulfilling career, the peace of mind, the sense of purpose—all mirages, shimmering on the edge of possibility but forever out of reach. And those who claim to have found them are either deluded or too afraid to admit the truth. That fulfillment is temporary. That happiness is fleeting. That nothing ever truly lasts.
They tell us to "never give up," as if persistence will change the nature of existence. As if life is anything other than struggle, loss, and inevitable decay. The body weakens, the mind falters, the years slip through our fingers like sand, and still, hope insists: "Keep going. Keep fighting. It will all be worth it." But worth what? To endure for the sake of endurance? To suffer for the promise of a reward that will never be permanent?
Hope is not kindness. It is a trick, a mechanism of control, a way to keep us shackled to a world that does not care whether we live or die. And when the weight of existence finally crushes those who can no longer bear it, what do they say? "If only they had held on a little longer. If only they had believed in a better future." But what if the future is nothing but more of the same? What if hope itself is the thing that prolongs our suffering?
The only true freedom is the rejection of false promises. The acceptance that life is what it is—an indifferent cycle of need, struggle, and decay. Without the chains of hope, one sees clearly. Without the lie of a better tomorrow, one can finally decide: is this existence truly worth it? Or is it time to let go?
Because maybe, just maybe, the only real peace is in the absence of wanting. And the only real escape is in the absence of being.
This is the prison of existence: the endless waiting for something that will never truly arrive. The perfect love, the fulfilling career, the peace of mind, the sense of purpose—all mirages, shimmering on the edge of possibility but forever out of reach. And those who claim to have found them are either deluded or too afraid to admit the truth. That fulfillment is temporary. That happiness is fleeting. That nothing ever truly lasts.
They tell us to "never give up," as if persistence will change the nature of existence. As if life is anything other than struggle, loss, and inevitable decay. The body weakens, the mind falters, the years slip through our fingers like sand, and still, hope insists: "Keep going. Keep fighting. It will all be worth it." But worth what? To endure for the sake of endurance? To suffer for the promise of a reward that will never be permanent?
Hope is not kindness. It is a trick, a mechanism of control, a way to keep us shackled to a world that does not care whether we live or die. And when the weight of existence finally crushes those who can no longer bear it, what do they say? "If only they had held on a little longer. If only they had believed in a better future." But what if the future is nothing but more of the same? What if hope itself is the thing that prolongs our suffering?
The only true freedom is the rejection of false promises. The acceptance that life is what it is—an indifferent cycle of need, struggle, and decay. Without the chains of hope, one sees clearly. Without the lie of a better tomorrow, one can finally decide: is this existence truly worth it? Or is it time to let go?
Because maybe, just maybe, the only real peace is in the absence of wanting. And the only real escape is in the absence of being.
