It has more often than not been called the final survival tool. The last thread that holds a flickering soul from falling into the unending spiral of despair.
Reviled. Gratuitous and yet generations upon generations have relied on it for miracles. It cocks its egotist maim at whoever clings on to it and then like a slippery soul vanishes into the vast ocean of broken imaginations. Hope is an escape artist, wrecking havoc on the psyche of the helpless, for time immemorial. The more we hope, the greater do we fail to fathom the “limitless”ness of ourselves. And that, ladies and gentlemen, has been the greatest con, hope has ever played on us. Forcing us to believe in it, so unerringly, when all it ever gave us was a facade of assurances. Borne out of thin air and made to look like as manna from heaven. We named it, as before mentioned, miracles.
So when a father lay dying, all his son will pray for a miracle hoping that it would bring his gasping man back to life. When a woman gives birth, we still call it a new hope and a birth, a miracle. A soldier, waving his farewell, with a hope that he might just make it back.
That tyrant of emotions, burning to ashes the will of men and women and turning them into futile beings.
And when all “hope” was lost, did from the horizon of extinction seem a long forgotten trait.
Slowly trampling upon the past relics of “hopelessness”, trudging past the infinite wait for miracle, Faith arrives. It ain’t no knight in shining Armour, but far more real. An imagery of flesh and blood. Vivid. Fresh and independent of hope’s machinations.
Hope till you find faith, for fire is what you will walk through. Hope will make your flesh burn while you limp through it. Faith will help you jump over it. Take that leap of faith, depending only upon yourself, while the rest of the mankind slowly recedes into merely being incidental. In a surreal world, juxtaposed at a cross-section of failure and fate, be the beacon.
Be the faith.