The Star of The Journey (Fuck Hope)

by Clare Edge

Healing. Renewal. Hope. The ephemeral promises that were meant to be waiting at the end of this pilgrimage. The Journey (TM). 

I’d thought myself immune to Instagram marketing. I knew how to resist the allure of single batch linens and hand spun wool. I knew the tricks. They were all drop shippers if they were in my price point anyway. I was a recovering social media marketer, I could see through the tactics, having employed them myself on countless occasions as I played fast and loose with my own ethics in a desperate attempt to survive the latest recession. 

But that was Before. Before I needed a cure. When there wasn’t one. Not yet. Not until Coral. And The Journey (TM). 

And I knew it was a risk. I knew that it could destroy me. But there was the chance it could save me too. At least, there was. Before today. Before twelve hours baking in the dessert, debating the efficacy of our cereal-box-quality compass with a disillusioned finance bro from Albuquerque, a self-proclaimed clairvoyant (named Clair) who won’t divulge something as petty and trivial as where her “physical form normally endures capitalism,” a retired school teacher from Washington (unclear on DC or state), and  twins from the Twin Cities. And I swear they’ve been planted here. That they are all actors, primed and picked to punk me like that old TV show. But there are no cameras. Not even our own. We surrendered our phones along with our egos back when the van picked us up from the hotel. Where we left Coral and her acolytes back in the air conditioned conference room.

But then we find the oasis. And at first, I think it’s a trick of my mind, because I’m the only one who sees it. And then I wonder if that’s the point. If I emptied my measly savings and risked everything for the chance to hallucinate with strangers when I could have just had my cousin send me some shrooms. But then Clair sees it. And the teacher. And even Day Trader Todd. And soon we’re stripping ourselves naked, crowding around the water, copper vessels in hand, dipping them in, pouring the water back to its source. And waiting. Waiting for it all to become clear. Waiting for healing. Renewal. And maybe, possibly, most aching and unlikely of all…hope. 

And miraculously, long after I lose track of how many times I’ve dipped the copper pot into the water, clarity does come, but not in the way I’d expected. It’s not healing. There’s no cure waiting for me in this spring, no matter how naked I get, no matter how many past lives I regress through. I am broken. My body is not one that welcomes renewal. My mind rejects hope. But out there, beyond the boundaries of my own imagination, something is waiting. 

And yes, I’ve been taken advantage of. I see now there is nothing profound about The Journey (TM) except how profoundly stupid I’ve been to tempt this degree of precarity with my fragile body and possibly even more fragile mind. There is sand in my ass and my pale skin is blistering, but something is waiting. And it’s anger. Raw and fierce and hot as the sun burning the back of my neck. 

I drop the copper pot and throw myself into the water. The others cry out. This isn’t part of The Journey (TM). This is, perhaps, even against the rules. My deviance may ruin their revelation. But I can’t bring myself to care. I splash and splash and splash. The others are angry. I’m ruining everything. But for the first time since Before, I let myself feel it. The fury. 

I scream until my voice breaks and I splash until the others back away. I rage until I collapse. No one pulls me out. I sink into the cool water. And when someone finally drags me back to land, I’m not profoundly changed. I’m not healed. I’m not renewed. I have no hope. I’m the exact same woman who was fleeced by a grifter and will have to return home to the consequences. And I finally understand that that’s the point. And it’s fucking beautiful. 

The Star of The Journey (Fuck Hope) was originally published by The Rebis in their 2024 issue titled The Star.