There's something beautiful about hopelessness. When the light has faded from the gleam in her eyes, when she simply stops talking, her hands still from the work she is doing.

Like a silent statue, she stands, cold, unmoving, emotionless. You cannot see that she is hopeless, because she hides it too well. All you can see is this defiant beauty, this shell of a life you know there once was in her, this painting, capturing a moment in time yet never doing the subject complete justice.

To be hopeless is to have reached your bounds, to have broken the paraments of what is humanly possible. To be hopeless is to have been stretched to the breaking point and still more, and yet survived. To be hopeless is to know like a silent companion the extent of your ability. To be hopeless, to be broken, is like a wilted rose, heartbreaking and beautiful in its own right.

To be hopeless, perhaps, has a beauty all its own.