May I choose hope

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - / That perches in the soul - / And sings the tune without the words - / And never stops - at all - / And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - / And sore must be the storm - / That could abash the little Bird / That kept so many warm - / I’ve heard it in the chillest land - / And on the strangest Sea - / Yet - never - in Extremity, / It asked a crumb - of me.

—Emily Dickinson

Your intellect writes your story With little care that the plotting Bears little resemblance to reality Distorting, omitting, and deleting With swift direction from your Tendencies and temperament Forgetting what you don't want To remember; and remembering What you don't want to forget

And your tendencies and temperament Are but prejudices taken up unawares That afterwards feed only on those things That agree with that vicious humour

But, to form balanced expectations Of what might occur is to marshal All possibilities that help and hinder it To see them all at once, so that the Stronger possibilities eclipse the weaker By antagonistically reducing the improbable

What is needed of you is to See the futility of holding on to And reliving the failures of the past To cease the reflexive rumination Of self-criticism from memories past

For when you have contracted Too many ways of losing face You have little chance of noticing The true reality of the present To accept this samskara (संस्कार) Is to seek the revelation that releases it Instead of the rumination that reinforces it