It’s a matter of hope

He looks intently at her. Studying the contours of the side of her face… how her hair falls absent mindedly over her ear, curling at the end in a way that seems both natural and yet intentional at the same time.
Her eyes burn a hole in the book she’s grasping tightly as her body sways from side to side, unified in motion with the commuter carriage she shares with so many like her… only, they’re not like her… not to him.
Admiring her from a distance he hopes she will only look up and see him. See that he’s reading the same book at her. See the smile he is preparing for her.
So he hopes.

The debris litters the ground around her as the smoke causes the all too familiar sensation of tears to fall from her reddened eyes. Still she fights to escape. With fingers bleeding, she desperately clutches at stone after stone, rock after rock; discarding them carelessly behind her.
Her body responds only to its instinctive nature to survive as she slowly digs herself out from beneath the collapsing building. Not knowing how far she has to go, or how long it will take; she continues to live in the hope that she will make it.
So she hopes.

The pen hits the paper like a bullet, drawing a line that represents childhood, education, social standing, personal life, peer pressure, and other factors besides that are unknown to him.
The ‘X’ that follows marks not only the choice of one man, nor the result of a society centuries in the making; but of hope as well. The hope he has that despite everything that has happened, despite everything that is happening, there can be a change. Things can get better.
So he hopes.

She places two fingers upon the inside of his wrist and squeezes gently. The nerve endings on her fingertips are conditioned to alert her of the slightest pulsation under his skin. Her lips lock over his. Her kiss, though not romantically intended, is more powerful than the most passionate moments she has ever shared.
Her heart rate increases almost as if it tries to compensate for the still muscle locked within his body. Her hands move to his chest as she pushes down her weight against him, willing his lifeless frame back into existence.
She hopes she is not too late… that his body will respond to her touch; her voice; her skill. Quicker than it should, the present turns into the past.
So she hopes.

I find it incredibly hopeful of mankind that despite the many different obstacles we as humans face, we somehow manage to remain hopeful that things will turn out the way we want. Often however, this can lead to a lot of disappointment… yet we still hope.
It’s not always good to hope, and at times, it can do more harm than good – however, for the most part, it drives us to try that little bit harder; to push that little bit extra.

There was a time when I used to say that hope was foolish, but perhaps I was foolish. There is certainly value in hope, and it’s quite possible that it’s more valuable than destructive.

I hope that by writing this it will be read.

I hope that once it is read, the readers will take note of the message I want to relay: that what you hope for doesn’t always have to happen for a good outcome to be achieved. Just by hoping and striving to fulfil that hope, we become better as people.

I hope that people can realise their full potential – not in terms of intelligence, or physical capabilities – but what they can achieve simply by being the conscious, social creatures they are, with the ability to choose another way… a better way.

I hope that the term humanity can be understood and adopted so that we don’t always look for a way to get one up over each other, but instead try to help the others in our species get one up to the same level.

I hope that I never lose hope in these things.

And so I hope.

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