Streams of Being #6

April 2026

6th Issue Front Cover

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Streams of Hope

Hope was the last thing that remained in Pandora’s box, or jar. All the evils it contained were released upon the world, except for hope. But if hope was sorted with malice, then does that make it evil, as well? And to whom?

When hope remained in Pandora’s box, or jar — that was actually her husband’s, Epimetheus’s —, was it safeguarded, or trapped inside? Was it on hold, to also be freed after humans had gone through their first trials, or was it purposefully hidden from us, so we would suffer the complete burn of all that is painful and malevolent?

To me, hope looks evil to the men that suffocate us with power. They can’t stand it when we stand together, when we love, when we laugh, when we fight back, when we’re proud. They hate it when we’re hopeful, because they understand the drive it gives us. So they take the good hope that we barely hold, they throw it into Epimetheus’s box, and they exchange it for a false and fabricated hope they pulled from a plastic factory, and shove it down our throats. They bang it on our eardrums, pierce it through our retinas.

That is why we can’t be too discerning with hope, that most dangerous thing. We must never forget the situations it saved us from, the strength which it imbued in our bones, the victories it wove into our history. It is an extremely heartbreaking thing when hope is all that’s left, and it’s still not enough, but it’s even more heartbreaking when we accept defeat because we never had it from the beginning. So grab your families, grab your friends, grab your neighbors, and let’s break that fucking jar.

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Torment

Hope has become my torment,
For I dare to dream the bug
You continuously crush at your feet

A Life to Live

You say I am naïve
Because I cling to hope and happiness with nails and teeth
You say the more I believe
The heavier will be my duvet of grief

But I say you're the naïve one
Relinquishing your body freely to despair and emotional misfortune
You have nothing to believe in nor to keep you steady on your feet
And that is how you reach your tomb with a life you didn't live

Pandora

Out on the sparks of desperation
I heard a choir of voices cry
They were calling for consolation 
For a sliver of respite

I do not hold power over such things
But I still heeded their call
I opened the rest of my cursed box
And let hope free them from my crimes

I Fear I Hope

                                       ife
                                       ar
                                 IH  ib   OPE
                          ICAN   re      BREA
                    THEINH  ath  OPEIHOP
                EICANBR  out EATHEINHO
             PEfearifear        ibreatheIHOPE
           ICANBoutRE       ATfearHEINHO
          PEIHifeariOPE      ICbreaANBREA
         THEItheoutNH      OPfearEIHOPEI
         CANBREifeAT       HEIarNHOPEIH
           OPEICANBR          EATHEINHO
                                                           PEI

Bit by Bit

Why is it that I alone have to be
The bearer of hope
For myself
And for mankind?
Is hope not something
We are meant to share
By building it in the air that
We breathe?
I can't do this alone
And you won't hear me
How am I to share something
I barely even have?
But if you hold my hand
And the next hand over
Of who's holding the one after that
Maybe I can believe
That I have some of it in me
And that I can share my portion
Bit by bit.

Other People

I look into your eyes
And I see the kind of strength
That urges me to strive
To survive

I look at your face
And I see the language of time
Which reminds me
That all can be alright

I look at your muscles
Marked by all the weight you've ever carried
And I learn that if you can do it
So can I

And then I see you smile at me
And I realize
That hope is something that we can only get
By caring for other people

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The Box

I haven’t been married to my husband for long. My grandfather introduced us, which I found quite odd, given that he hates my husband’s brother. Still, my husband loved me right away, so we got married. But he is such an airhead. I ask him a question, and he takes a lot of time to respond properly, and that’s when he can. He seems to always be lost in thought, ruminating on things past, but no clear conclusions ever seem to come from that.

One day, he came home after work with a huge box that barely fit in his arms. It was beautiful. It was made of gold, full of ancient drawings and inscriptions I could barely understand, and adorned with beautiful jewels. I was a bit startled. Where did he find something like that? Certainly not in his office.

“Honey, where did you find that?” I asked.

“Oh, just something your grandfather gave to me. He said something about never opening it, I think. But I didn’t quite understand why that was.” He responded.

“Strange. Here, take it to the living room, you can place it on the table in that corner.” I instructed. And it took me a while to move my eyes away from its mesmerizing appearance. A part of me was extremely curious to explore its contents, but if my grandfather said it must not be opened, then I had no choice but to respect his orders.

Some weeks passed, and I had to fight my ever-increasing urges to open it. It wasn’t mine, and my grandfather seemed to have explicitly told my husband that it should not be open, no matter what. My husband hadn’t asked him why, and never mentioned the subject again, despite mumbling to himself repeatedly about it. It could be something important for grandfather’s business that he had to keep from the office’s prying eyes. He would probably come to fetch it later, and how would he react if he arrived and found the box opened? What kind of disrespect wouldn’t that be toward him?

But one day, when my husband had been away for some days on a business trip, I let my curiosity get the best of me. I mean, if it truly was my grandfather’s, what was so secretive about it that not even his own granddaughter could see? So, I moved toward the living room table tucked away in a corner, and caressed the box’s golden surface, feeling the textures of the drawings and inscriptions on my fingertips, the cold of its precious jewels. My fingers moved almost on their own, as if urgently trying to find the lock. Once I popped it open, I lifted the heavy lid and caught a glimpse of the crimson velvet within. And, in a flash, smoke darted from the inside, and a piercing cry invaded my ears. Everywhere around the room, the smoke was seeking fissures to escape outside, as if on a mission. My vision blurred, my ears buzzed, and I was starting to get severely dizzy. I quickly started toward the box, hoping that closing it would stop this incessant torment. My breath was getting heavier by the second, and I felt as if I were about to faint, so I hurried to close it with as much strength as I could muster. As soon as I accomplished my feat, my consciousness began to drift, slowly enough for me to catch my husband’s voice crying, “Oh, no, Pandora, what have you done?!”

Is It Evil?

I used to dream and hope. I used to believe there was always a bright side to every problem, a miracle to every curse. I tried to grasp it every night, but it seemed the older I got, the more it slipped through my fingers. Like water or sand. Or blood.

And when I did catch a drop or a grain, I clung to it so fiercely, I crushed it. And it stopped working. Misfortune followed me like the moon on a late-night drive. And I couldn’t bear its silvery shine.

So, now I am afraid to hope again. It never saves me; it just leaves me numb and lifeless, in the end. It raises expectations that life is too cruel to meet. It’s the sickest game I still participate in. I begin to wonder, could hope actually be evil?

Or Is It Good?

It’s been three weeks since they forbade us from dancing. No one is allowed to move or play a tune. I don’t know how they’re supposed to monitor all of us in our private homes, but almost everyone I know is too scared to move a limb. Even when doing house chores. What if they think we were swaying our hips or shaking our shoulders, while carrying the dishes, as they peered through our windows?

They’re trying to make us believe that hope is evil and useless, that it won’t save us. So, they crushed every activity that could light that steady and warm fire in our hearts. They claim it’s for our protection, but I say it’s so it becomes easier for them to control us. They wouldn’t care so much if hope were a bad thing. They wouldn’t try to strip it away from us like the colors from our clothes.

Hope is a good thing. It gives us the strength to fight. It gives us enough power to take care of our communities. To fight through another day. To seek another glimmer of happiness and comfort. Hope is what keeps our hearts beating, both physically and spiritually. And that is why, as soon as the curfew starts, and I get to close the curtains, I will be dancing through the dark.

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6th Issue Back Cover

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