Emily Dickinson's observation that "hope is the thing with feathers" (which I've always conflated with Woody Allen's book Without Feathers) explains it nicely, so at the risk of two poetry days in a row, if that is ever a risk:
HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
"Hope up" your life today, and if you're a Pennsylvania Democrat, don't let anything keep you from voting!