there is a light at the end of the tunnel and there is hope at the end of despair.

 Here's the scenario: you're sitting on the cold floor, left hand on your chest, right heart holding a gun. Not any ordinary gun, but THE gun, the one that is meant to end this endless nonsense of life, this continuous struggle of existing in a world that seems to not quite be made for you to exist in, this going in circles and struggling to go forward. THE gun, THE object that can take all of these sorrows away. You hold onto it like it is the most precious thing in the world. Still, your heart. Your heart is beating faster and faster. It perhaps senses that there is an ending near. Is it scared? Is it excited? Is it glad that all the ache it had to carry around all of these years will be finally dropped? We cannot know for sure, but there is something quite peculiar about its way of somehow sensing it: the end. 

 One hand on your chest, one hand on the trigger. The taste of freedom feels sweet, yet the sourness of the way you get to it is present on the tip of your tongue. Sweet freedom, you think. Sweet freedom, but at what cost? Is this what you really wish for? Is this what you really want? Is this how it has to end, this life of yours?

 Thrilling is the thought of your sweet surrender, your sweet demise. Yet somehow, tears start to make their way in your eyes, then down your cheeks, only to end up on your lips. The saltiness of a heart aching for another way out. Deep down, you're salty. As salty as your tears. 'Does it really have to end this way?' is what you're truly wondering. 'Did I go all this way just to end up like this? All of these years... is this what they sum up to? It can't be... yet it is. What hope do I even have left? I have clung onto every little grain of SOMETHING, ANYTHING I could find to keep me here, to keep me going. I have tried my best, I swear I did. Yet nothing, NOTHING is all I am left with after all of this. NOTHING is all that I have become. Am I not just wasting space? Am I not just wasting resources that someone, ANYONE that still has any hope left wishes for desperately, while I have them and I just waste them for what? I am nothing. I have become nothing but a dot on a page that is already filled up with other dots, brighter dots, luckier dots, bigger and more hopeful dots. A dot on a page, a dot on a book, a dot on a globe that is already too full of dots. This shall be a good riddance. The world shall be free of all that I am (not anymore).'

You think and think, go through all the reasons why this is the right way to go. You're tired, so tired of it all. You know that it is pointless to keep on going. 

Then why, you wonder, there's still so much hesitation in pulling that trigger? Why is your hand playing with the trigger, yet shaking uncontrollably as your tears become a pool of pain and regret? Why is your heart beating, still beating, perhaps screaming at you to change your mind? 'Stop screaming, you sigh. Stop it. It it pointless, you hear me? POINTLESS. What is the point of going on? 

WHAT IS THE POINT OF GOING ON?

 STOP SCREAMING, YOU FOOL!

 STOP SCREAMING!

STOP BEATING! STOP IT!

STOP!' 

You desperately shout at your naive heart. You don't realize that you are the one screaming. You're the one still wishing for more beats, wishing for something to change, something to actually hold onto. You blame your heart for beating, yet it still beats because of you. You're angry at it for fighting, yet deep inside, you wish you could be by its side, fighting together for another day. Still, the only warrior left on the battlefield seems to be your heart, your good ol' beating heart. 

Yet it is a part of you, isn't it? One cannot be without the other. One cannot beat without another. 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words - 

And never stops - at all - 

You look up at the sky. It is a rather beautiful shade of blue today. You hear the birds sing, their voices as sweet as ever. You hold your gun tighter, hands shakier, tears saltier and your heart's beating even faster. 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm -

Sweet songs of birds become the voices of the hope you used to cling onto. Friends and family, all gather at the top of your head. They're these beautiful birds and they sing you songs of

 things they wish to do and

 lives they wish to live and

 you weep like a little kid

 wishing you could hug them one last time

 and tell them that you're sorry (for you truly are). 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - 

And on the strangest Sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me.

Your family and friends fly down, on your lap. You stare at them, they stare at you.

And then, suddenly, they all hug you. Each little bird, with their different shapes and colors, give you a warm hug. And suddenly, the world doesn't feel as scary. The road ahead,  a bit clearer. The sun shines brighter. Your heart begins to slow down. The grip on your gun loosens up.

You're hugging these birds. In fact, you blink twice and there are no birds there. You're hugging yourself. You're here. You're still here. 

There is a light at the end of the tunnel and there is hope at the end of despair. 

And so, even in the darkest of times, hope somehow came 

to you me.