As long as we, the humans, are buying hope or the idea of it, we are prone to let down our guard and chase endlessly the ideal on an artificial path, guided by the scent of a delusional reality. Like a schizophrenic, we are unable to distinguish between the imaginary, the existence of refuge, and the palpable, the survival through mundane.
Hope is the drug that every human being had overdosed on and is still growing in popularity. Hope, in any dose, transforms the ingurgitator into a gullible pursuant of one's own comfortability.
The progress from an amoeba to a cognitive creature was exceptional. This ascending trajectory path was curbed by the futility of hope.
I must not continue this thought without refuting one of my most favorite authors, Albert Camus. The paradox is as beautiful as a gas chamber or the new settlements onto the graves of Gaza. A perennial human mistake. Mr. Camus was a poet of German occupation and, without having troupes, he concluded that hope represented the only viable barricade: with every step, the hope of succeeding, sustains us. Sisyphus still hopes, like us, that eventually will succeed and the absurdity will be defeated by its own standards. Sisyphus will never accomplish his task and even if he did, he would represent just the life of a pawn who never became queen. Reaching the metamorphosis line before being eaten by the defenseless king. Hope, therefore is just a belief that keeps the heard moving in a non-revolting direction.
Hope keeps the mases succeeding only in their belief, going toward an intangible achievement. Anything spawned from hope and sustained by belief culminates in the atrocity of deceit. The veracious intentions can not justify the barbarism of facts.
Would there be any advancement without hope? The Dream Chaser is asking the amorphous sky. The sky is mute. Just a few thunders are roaring here and there like two bitches left on the sidewalk, unpaid.
They feed of eachother's deception, hoping, once again, that tomorrow will bring their dream client: the one with a very small dick and a gargantuan pocket.
That day inevitably comes – tomorrow – and hope is being sold again to the addicts of it and is shaped according to everyone's aspirations, fears and budget. Tomorrow, Sisyphus is still midway there, god is masturbating in front of the meek but won't allow them to touch the outcome while your mother hoped you called home for a change.
I could continue but I'd insult my thinking readers. As for the rest, I let them do what they do best: hope!