Somewhere in my body, in my chest maybe, there is nothing. Light never pierces the gloom, air never passes through. Most of the times, it is negligible -- almost natural. There are times, however, when the absence howls -- when the absence becomes defining, rather than incidental. When nothing else shapes me but the absence. "You will never be good enough," it says. And I echo willingly, a lonely psalm to a gospel truth, "I will never be good enough."
How cruel can this world be, teaching us to hope, when all it does is widen the gap between 'can' and 'cannot.' How cruel -- how spiteful! when clouds uncover stars and all we can do is wonder at their light, forever out of reach. How cruel. How disappointing when, as a matter of fact reaching the stars is indeed possible -- as other people have proven -- but not for you.
Hope, they say. I say hope is nothing. Hope is dust. Hope has done naught else but fuel the absence in my chest. Hope -- that burning light, that malignant whisper. It leans into my ear and says, "Not good enough."
