Anyone I think I could love is, by definition, so capable of and uniquely positioned to wound me that I can’t bear it. Slight me and let me sit alone with it for 24 hours, thinking it’s my fault, and I crumble. That’s why I don’t let anyone in. I can’t. I can’t afford the time off that’s required to cry. And here’s the thing. Harvey Milk and Barack Obama and a hundred others like them spoon fed us “hope.” “You’ve got to give them hope,” Milk famously said. The concept of hope was so central to Obama’s campaign that it was the only word on his most famous posters. Machiavelli agreed; feed the people hope. Side with the people and feed them hope.
The subjective experience of hope is no different that the subjective experience of false hope. No one is so honest with themselves that they can discern hope from false hope one hundred percent of the time, so even ordinary people are stuck with hoping (against hope) for things that never come to pass.
You know what hope is? Hope is evil. Hope is deceitful. Better to assume the worst and plan for it.
There may come a time
when I will see that I was wrong,
but for now this is my song
and it’s goodbye to love.