Hope

I call this one hope.

Speak to me of hope and of a bright future while I'm stuck here in a bottomless dark pit.
My fingertips are nothing but skin and bone, fingernails broken and bloodied, fingerprints worn to nothing from trying to claws my way out,  but all I did was decorate my prison walls with the scratches and scrapes.
Trying to escape took alot more from me than I did from it, more than bringing me any closer to the light.
And there I sat, there I sit, there I will always sit. Staring at the flickering light, taunting me with its promise of somewhere better, somewhere safe, somewhere that isn't here.
Here I remain, tempted to keep staring at the fading torchlight they call hope, but I'm too tired to, because the longer I see the light, the darker my prison becomes, so I don't stare, for this is the best I can hope for, for my eyes not having to adjust to the changing light every time I'm pulled back to reality.
This is hope.
This is home.
This is reality.
This is life.
Here I will always remain, close enough to hear them laugh, but not close enough to hear why they laugh.
I don't call for their help anymore, they can't save me, at least I choose to believe so, it's better to say they "can't" than they "won't", what could have I possibly done not to deserve rescue?
So the choices I have to make are 2, always 2.
To wait and forever, to forget why I wait and still wait, to endure silently.
Or to resist, to fight back, to break free,  but then only to realise I'm fighting my own shadow, and to fall down and crumble.
It doesn't matter which one I choose, because one choice will always lead to the other, so in truth there is no choice, only the illusion of choice.
This is hope.
This is home.
This is reality.
This is life.