Persistence (Eeyore)

Emily Dickenson said something about Hope.  It's the thing with wings or something?  The book is sitting two yards away, so why don't I reach out, open it up and read it?  Can't answer that.  No.  I can.  I don't want to.  I don't want to read Emily Dickenson right now.

What is the thing when you don't really have hope, you believe it is stupid to have hope, that hope is the only thing that keeps the human race going, that there is no point in having hope, that there is really nothing, at this moment, that I can say I hope for, that I believe everytime I have had hope, I have crashed in flames and really don't want to do it again--but still, I persist.  Still, I get up every morning and I see light.  I am looking forward to getting up tomorrow morning because the washing machine is fixed and a cool, dry front is supposed to come through.  That I wish I could fall quickly to sleep so tomorrow would hurry up and be here and today was just so blah and uncomfortable that I just want it to be over.  That people tell me stuff that is not true cuz they feel sorry for me.  That they don't even think anymore about why they feel sorry for me cuz they are too busy living?  That I feel I am tolerated, not appreciated.  That sometimes I just don't care and I think stuff that could get me put in the hospital, and I don't want to go to the hospital.  So I just persist.  And it hardly even seems like living anymore.  It's just persisting.  And I do it cuz when I wake up, I still see that damn light.  I read someone's blog today where they talked about someone they remember, someone that died, and the memories were so positive, so that person that died lived for a reason.  And I am betting she never stopped and thought about what that reason was.  She just did the best job of living her life that she could.  And I ALWAYS feel like I am not doing that.  ALWAYS.

I so want to  think that I will leave something important behind.  But why do I think that?  There are some super excellent, wonderful humans walking this earth and breathing because of me.  But instead of just accepting that that is a very good thing, I second guess my conclusion and start to think, 'What if they don't do anything good or important.  It will all have been for naught.'  For sure, I know, for sure, my mother NEVER gave a thought to what legacy she was leaving, its quality, its quantity, its value, why her children were the way they were, what input did she have on the outcome.    Why does this so govern my mind?  Waking up and seeing light should be enough.  It's not.  Not for me. 

What would be enough?