There is no hope. There is pain, tiredness, longing and sadness. And fear. Boundless fear.
But presumably, this pain will come to an end. Though it may get far worse before then.
Perhaps I will somehow find the courage to end it by that point. But if not, it will come to a natural conclusion.
The average lifespan is under 80. Knock several years off that for depression and chronic isolation, plus a few more for lifestyle factors. It could easily be less that 40 years. Even less if I get a terminal illness.
What’s 40 years, given the span of the universe? A blink. The last 33 have gone by in a blur. It’ll be over in no time.
No matter how bad it gets, this will come to an end. Unless there’s a hell. In which case I’m truly fucked