There might be a way to fix this. Too many people say we’ve gone too far and ignored too many limits to turn around and set us all on the right path. But as I sit here in the dark, huddled next to the fire and rubbing my gloved hands together for friction, I grimace and keep setting my mind towards the right direction: hope.

My clothes and hair are a disheveled mess but I’m sure I can fix that. My body smells but in a shelter – with their cheap lye soap – I could rectify that too. I just need an angle; I need a way back up.

There’s a photo in my pocket, one with her face barely smudged. I keep touching the edge of it, knowing my dirty fingers would mar the memory. There is a part of myself that laughs at me thinking of words like ‘mar’. But to have hopes to rise again, I need my mind sharp. I need to keep using the words, the vocabulary.

I can fix this. I can come back. There is no way I’m going to lay here in the filth and cry “Defeat!”

I can’t.

I won’t.

I just need that angle.

I just need hope.