“Hope is a waking dream.” Aristotle
Hope is the enchantment of a blooming bud, stretching its petals beyond its capacity and awakening to the world as a flower. It is the tears of lost love, perhaps even lost lust and every drop of sweat of hard labour. Hope desires for everlasting intimacy, concrete stability and superficial luxury. Hope is for the romantic, the penniless, the blessed, the insane, the sage- the living.
A compelling inkling, craving out of the present and into an quixotic dream. It is a daring proposition and yet a foolish tactic, for hope is hardly a truth. Is not hope a futile prayer, a last resort once everything else has been obliterated? And what then? What happens after a fair share of idle hope? Does the universe regain its colour, staining trees in brilliant verdant and painting seas, sparkling azure? Certainly not.
But what if one lucks out while engaging in this frivolous hope? Belle certainly did, kissing her dying beast to depict her perpetual love, all wrapped up in one big act of hope, turning the beast into the idealistic man- royalty. I love pretty things, princely boys and the idea of world peace as much as the next person, but I’d be hoping for an eternity for that ‘Disney composed’ dream to come true.
“Hope that one day we will be free from these spectacular griefs, hope that one day the shackles will disintegrate into trampled dust beneath dancing feet.” Rachel Jones