If I had a brick for every time I felt helpless or hopeless, I could build a house. Not just a house, a big old mansion in the country. 

It could have a library, with a green chintz armchair by the window, so I could sit there on rainy days and read to my heart's content.

A grand living room with a working fireplace to sit in front of on chilly November evenings. A spacious conservatory with a little drinks bar for the summer.

Lavish bedrooms with queen-sized beds and an alcove in every room. A wood shed and a pond. 

With all my bricks, I could build a fire pit in the garden and invite neighbours over for barbecues. I could make a little brick path that led to a greenhouse filled with lots of herbs and other fresh ingredients that I would make lovely home-cooked meals with. 

Even after all that, I'd still have too many bricks left. So I might make good use of them. I could give some to my neighbours, and help them patch up a hole in their wall.

I could donate some, and watch as they're incorporated into buildings or made into art projects. See what people do with them. 

I'd still have a few bricks left, though. I'd probably build something useless and maybe a bit stupid with them. Maybe some abstract sculpture out in my front garden, or something of the sort.

But it doesn't matter, because they're my bricks. I can use them however I want. My bricks are born from hopelessness, but they don't have to build more hopelessness. They're bricks; they can build almost anything.