It was an environment that was easier to manage, but never one I accepted. There was always hope, always a desire to try to make things better. To find a way. Maybe not a perfect way, maybe not an easy way, but the hope never completely left.
That hope wasn't a light and airy thing that you got from poetic depictions. It was hard and jaded. Not something that lifted me up, but something I dragged with my all my life. And no matter how much easier it would have made things for me, I refused to put it down. Hope forged from spite, determination, and an obstinate refusal to accept things the way they were. Hope that had to be rebuilt as the softer parts crumbled away. Hope that nearly broke during a bad night with my family, but hope that endured, first in myself and then with everyone who had come to support me. Everyone with their own hopes, dreams, and personal drives. Their own quest for progress.
Hope drove progress. There was no movement towards something better without the belief that it was possible to get there. Progress didn't just happen, it was the result of effort, drive, and determination. To make progress means to give up things the way they were, but also to give up the infinite potential of what could be. In taking the step towards one future, countless possibilities were forever lost. You had to give up what 'was' and what 'could have been'. That was the only way to achieve what 'would be'.
It was the only way forward, the only way to achieve change and to make a difference. It was something everyone knew deep in their heart, even if they didn't devote themselves to it. I knew. I knew and I understood. Hope, determination, and progress were universal elements. Things that united everyone and everything. Because all things strive.
