Sometimes, I feel like Hope is a classic novel with clichéd words, which I'm tired of reading over and over again. But am I really tired though? As I still yearn to open that novel when fear, anxiety or self-doubt are at their pestilential best.
Reading Hope is a rigmarole, yet I'm intoxicated by its magic. It does its work with precision. I've doubted it several times, denigrated its existence, thought of it as a ludicrous belief that makes a person go berserk, if not acquired. But one can't acquire hope, its unattainable. It can only be embraced, nurtured and felt.
I truly believe that we are the authors of the epistolary of Hope. Some make it an antagonist, some show it in a good light. For others it is just a supporting or minor character but very few show it as the protagonist. They fear that they'll be judged of the predicament they created, for Hope is rambunctious and not many can handle its volatility. It can give you false beliefs and you may never be able to show fortitude. Then one will always say how garrulous the affair of Hope is.
But no! I want Hope to be my protagonist with a picaresque story containing a conjunction of clichéd words. It is the only stagnant feeling that I have had with me over the years. A belief, a faith, a place of worship and complaints. Hope never left me forlorn. It is still pristine, etched into my heart and mind. I may still write a sesquipedalian piece about Hope, inebriated in its beauty. With chapters elucidating my relationship with it. And after I finish it, I'll be sipping coffee, reminiscing the experience. Yet again, giving it a read, but this time it'll be my very own creation.
As Hope is The only light that shines during sheer darkness, The only ray of sunshine after the dawn, The only optimism in a pessimistic world, The only constant around a host of backstabbers, And the only genuine feeling amidst all the forcibly fake ones.