Hope is Overrated

It bounces into view and disappears in the dip of a sidewalk's smile. A few strides later I catch another glimpse of rolling blue sloppily tracing the sky's edge. My head bobs, feet taking turns at the lead until the path opens up to miles on end of blue against blue.

White interrupts sporadically with caps and clouds only to corroborate the sea's on-and-on story.

I ran three miles knowing an ocean view would be waiting. I've shed three pairs of tread along this path, and I trust the shore is there, even when the horizon tells me otherwise. It keeps me going when my lungs tell me to stop.

Had I been lost and only hoping that the sea might be near, I would have slowed to a walk a mile ago. I might have even turned around.

But I knew where I was, where I was going. I knew it would be there.

They say hope floats, and likely it does.

But if hope floats, then belief swims. Belief urges us forward, toward deep blue truth.

Hope leniently lets us tread in circles. But belief locks on, swims straight, tells us not to fear the point of no return.

I can't help but hope for happiness in this world.
But whatever happens, no matter how awful and out of breath I feel, I believe in the joy of the next.