The Hopeful Thought

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Except of course, the mind in the bedroom above who’s thoughts it just can’t get a hold of. An entire lifetime plays out in the theater, as the popcorn of thought starts to heat up and with it, tickets are being sold. “One for you Mr. Doubt, one for you Mademoiselle Worry, of course, reserved seats for you Mr. and Mrs. Constrictive-Anxiety. I’m sorry little one, we’re sold out, why don’t you go play with all the other hopefuls in the arcade! There you can play the machines until the bigger machine eats you alive! Transformation! Fun right?! What do you want to be when you grow up? You know, I’ve heard there's a booming market for depression instigators nowadays. That’ll surely reserve your ticket.” The Hopeful then sulks down the hallway, sliding its hand across the brick wall, thinking to itself how miserable it must be to have been so unimportant. It peers into the arcade, sees

the sunken faces and river of tokens as they feed into their falsities and pseudo-happiness. The Hopeful knows what happens all too well, the others play and play until one moment they are tender enough to be consumed. Like a shish-kabob! What a funny word. It reaches for the handle, but upon grabbing it, the Hopeful realizes. No. It wants to be more than a funny word, or one of the pictures on the food pyramid it saw in P.E. class. Instead, the Hopeful bends the handle upwards, no more of its kind will be trapped here. With an impenetrable sense of justification, the Hopeful starts to glow, the radiating aura like a lighthouse signaling to the sea, “follow me” it says. After all, to be afraid of the dark, there must be darkness! Or, maybe not. Just as dark as the corner with the carved dog statue and the Buzz Lightyear action figure is the curtain. Not the blue ones that the dog tore down, but the kind of eerily smooth silk. The kind you find in the projector room. The Hopeful, unlike