Monday, April 21, 2014
It's such a futile thing: hope. There is no act of doing, other than the thought itself, yet we expect action in return. Hoping has no connection to the physical. It remains with us. Hope doesn't built castles or save lives. Hope doesn't feed a famine or give warmth to a chilled body. Hope is a preservation of the wishful thinker, the individual who knows no other way. It is also an excuse for the unwilling and a fragile thread to hang on to. Hope doesn't connect. It leaves as greater chasm as it found. Hoping is doing nothing. Hoping is lost on the needy. Hope is for those who can well do without it. Hope will not ward away the ravages of time. Nor will it fend off the attack from enemies. Be thoughtful, then find another way.