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Rated: E · Other · Inspirational · #1957672
Hope is a good thing; maybe the best of things....
There was once a writer who began to feel that his stories had become stupid and useless. He thought that no one would ever read his stories; or even cared that once he had lived. What difference would he ever make in another's life anyway? So, feeling more depressed and morose, he took a handful of pills, he laid himself down, and prepared himself to die.
As he felt himself start to drift away on ebon sheets of eternal night, he saw, as if through a muddied fog, a group of people coming towards his way, and boy, were they mad!
They started to shove him about, screaming at him that he had become totally selfish; that in killing himself, he had consigned them all to die.
Finally, he felt that he had enough, and screamed," Stop! What are all you people talking about?" So they stopped shoving him around, and began introducing themselves.
They stated that they were the people of his imagination, who would live someday; but because he was killing himself, they were all doomed to die; their lives would never touch anyone else.
The last character walked up to him, an ethereally beautiful lady, who seemed as if she lived in some afar off, unknowable dream.
She said to him in a voice made of crystalline music, "My name is Hope, and because you will write about me, you will give hope to a young woman who will someday marry you; who shall make you happier than you have ever dreamt possible." And with that, she bent down, and smiled; upon his lips, her kiss was soft, brilliant light....
His eyes snapped open. He looked around, and seeing himself alone, he staggered to his feet. He somehow made it into the toilet, and sicced up the poison until he felt himself cleansed. He made himself some very stout coffee, then he sat down in the corner of his room. Huddling there, he rocked back and forth, and moaning, began to cry.

Many, many years later, with his live coming to an end, an old man, happy, a life fulfilled. As he felt himself start to drift away once again on ebon sheets of neverending dream, he smiled, as he saw the people he had once helped to create come to him in triumph.
As they bore him away on a litter of bronze, they began to sing the songs of his life with great joy upon their lips; and ask they sang, he looked down upon himself with great amazement, for, lo! He was clad in the finest symmetry of free-spun gold. He saw that, also, his age had left from him far, far away; leaving him young, and as a King, and filled with an unmeasurable joy; for his Hope stood before him, smiling, as his eternal Queen....
© Copyright 2013 Danny Wayne Evans (doc007gonz at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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