Although we may question the spiritual usefulness of hope, hopes still rise up within us all day long. They can’t be seen, only the most pressing are shared. Physical hopes of convenience. Hope the L-train will wait until I get down the stairs. Hope this pay phone works. Hope my transfer is still good. Hope the rain lets up. Hope I have enough cash on me for a coffee. Hope he calls. Psychological hopes of approval: Hope this paper is good enough. Hope I say something smart. Hope my face looks good. Hope she looks up at me. Hope he doesn’t think I’m desperate. Emotional hopes that bubble up and make you teeter throughout the day. Hope the chemotherapy works on him. Hope she can handle his absence. Hope he’s not late again tonight. Then, the moral hopes, the only point of all hopes, the over-arching hopes in the background of every moment, a low tension hum: Hope I don’t get old. Hope I’m good enough. Hope I don’t feel pain. Leading to the only real motivating force, the hope against hopes: Hope I don’t die.
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