I remember the dark nights when books where my only company. I remember the hope that bled through the pages and lit up the darkness around me. I remember the courage that pushed back at the darkness, because even when stares went out, the books always ended with  the characters lighting them again.
The books lied.
The words that framed my world have been ripped away; the lies that told me there was hope now crushed in the dust. I see the pain that lies behind every shred of our life, the death that keeps us alive. I used to think there was an answer. That I could save our world—rescue it—so that we weren’t kept alive by the blood of our neighbours.
Now… now there’s nothing. One choice leads to death, another choice leads to death—all the choices lead to death. I want to wrap the lies around me again until the empty disconsolate truth is hidden from me and there’s hope again.
Even if it’s a false hope.
How can I live with the truth when it carries the weight of the galaxy’s darkness? It scares me that I can see the reasons for the lies that our society’s leaders have woven. It scares me that I can understand the deaths they order each day. Without them we would all die. All other options lead to universal death but this one only leads to individual death. This one keeps us alive at the price of our humanity. Is it better? Should it be better? Should I just let go of my doubts, and realize this is our only option?
Should I become like the leaders?
But I can’t. We’ve exchanged compassion for our beating hearts, love for the breath in our lungs. Is that where we’ve gone wrong? The darkness of night stares at me and I’m terrified of my answer. The leaders say I can either join them or die. They want me on their side—they say that since I saw through the lies they wove, I am clever enough to make better ones. But my life is not worth more than my humanity. I will not sacrifice what makes this world beautiful to save my life… I will not say that what the leaders do is right, even if stopping comes at the price of universal death.  
I remember another book I read on the dark nights. One that didn’t hide the darkness of the world, yet still said there was hope. Not because the characters saved the world, but because the characters themselves were saved. They weren’t meant to fix the world; just serve the one who would.
Maybe it’s okay I don’t have a plan. Maybe it’s okay there isn’t a way. Maybe it’s okay I can’t save the world.
It was never up to me.
The leaders will kill me. I don’t fear it anymore—I remember the golden hope at the end of the book, and I can’t fear it. All I can feel is that hope, spinning around me, pounding through my blood, deeper than the bullet that they imbed in my chest and louder than my screams of pain. I just wish I could have shared my hope with the world.