In later years, my writings tend to incorporate hope

I hint at it, allude to it, or even praise it outright

But I have so precious little of my own...and I wonder why

I thought of Pavlov:

If a dog is beaten every time it approaches people food

Eventually, after years of abuse

That dog will cringe whenever it sees a delicious morsel

To the point that the dog could be left alone with a steak

Without daring to sniff at it, likely afraid to even consider it

I realized, I am that dog

Beaten down by life, disappointment, tragedy, solitude

Driven to terror by the possibility—even the hint—of hope

I wonder if there are any therapists out there

Who accept payment in kibble...