Wreckage

 The same doom, rattling and swirling, crashing and coursing. It will never work out.

But that isn't true, is it? The truth is that I don't know. We never really do. A hundred times over it may fail, and then it works. I am hopeful. I am optimistic. I am fighting that worm in the base of my skull, twisting and wriggling toward my heart.

It can work out. The potential is there. The right moments. The right words. The right attitude. It might not, but it CAN. That's good enough for me.

I had let it out. I had said it. Most of it. The important bits. And I waited a day for disaster, but disaster isn't what happened. A pause, a slow conversation. The possibility remained and now there was even footing, or, more even anyway. A hint of what I wanted to hear. Not confirmation, but a hint. Potential.

Stand in the wreckage of a thousand dead worlds and envision a new one.

Potential. 

Possibility.

Hope.

Keep going.

It's worth failing.