Prologue: This post takes life from my interpretation of The Great Gatsby Book Review of The Great Gatsby which I read recently as an Optimist's manifesto, my own stupefaction of the incorrigible hope which lives with me and a response in the morning indicating hopelessness of hope.
Hope is a magical word of myriad meanings. It stands right in the middle of a mad man's fantasy and the cruel realities within which he survives. It hangs in the narrow space between improbable possibility and probably impossibility.
We die every moment that we live, every breath pulling us into the chasm which stares at us with the hunger of centuries roaring in those feral eyes. The eyes are dead, without passion which doesn't shine even in the kill.
We laugh, we sing, we dance and we love in the midst of this morbid pathos, and hopeless ennui which stretch before us like a road riding into nowhere.
We sustain this sadness, outlive this numbness which this life hands out to us through Art, Literature and above all love which cannot be possible without hope. Hope is the moon which shines across the darkest night and stands guard as a singular soldier of light.
Hope is like God, which it would be necessary to invent even if it were not there. It is not a desperate plea of the imbecile, it is in fact, most sensible resort of the wise. It is as Aristotle said, Hope is waking dream. Another writer which I love a lot, Dostoevsky wrote, To live without hope is to cease to live. If some believe it amounts to fooling the intellect, let it be. I will always hope, for hope is only currency which I never run out of, only friend which never abandons me. There are very few things on which I could summon courage to contradict Nietzsche who said 'Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.', contradict I will, for hope is only thing which makes bearable all the torments of a man.