Hope is lovely, but we sometimes misuse it to attempt to conjure into actuality the existence of very particular physical facts in the world, based on no greater justification than our own personal preferences. I saw some nice pants in a shop window yesterday, and today I have been occupying my mind with the pointless and irrelevant act of hoping – through the sustained application of will, desire, and fervent prayer – that they will be in the shop waiting for me when I enter the establishment today. Dealing with the crushing disappointment if they don’t have them in my size is going to be that much more difficult. If they are there, they’re not going to be more there just because I hoped for them, and feeling like I’ve been “successful” in my hoping is ridiculous. I should have been thinking about what I will cook for dinner, or something else rather more useful and constructive.
I think that, in general, I bother because it gives the future events of my day an emotional depth, levels of significance, the distinction of character, and a dash of colour, even. I cannot imagine a life without it. Days would be bland and grey. My experience of them would be flat and apathetic and dimensionless and… hopeless. I’d barely be able to think of reason to get up in the morning if I didn’t have even the smallest hope for what the day held in store. Even something so simple and basic as the wish that it wouldn’t be a completely crappy day, for instance. Not to mention new pants.