Sunday, November 29, 2015

HOPE.

Hope is when you are three and set a balloon free, thinking it will reach the moon.
Hope is tooth fairy, hope is Santa Claus' gift and hope is a birthday-candle-wish. 
Hope is when you are sixteen and stand by the traffic signal and shout your prices hoarse for people to buy your colouring books.
Hope is, waiting outside the intensive care unit for the doctor to bring relief.
Hope is when you are eighteen and still look at the door expectantly for your dad to return from the war-front.
Hope is, believing that your team will make it to the winners’ table in the dying minutes of a game.
Hope is anxiously looking at your phone as the clock strikes twelve, for that one long-distance call on your birthday.
Hope is getting into a moving train with bags bigger than you for sale, only to make ends meet.
Hope is when you are marooned on an island and spot a waving hand out-of-the blue.
Hope is when you are seventy two and stand on the pavement selling incense sticks on a bright and sweltering Sunday afternoon - undeterred, undaunted.
Hope is waiting for the weekend so you get to see your grandchildren and buy them ice-creams to soothe their screeches.
Hope is thinking about that long lost loved one each night before you go to bed, imagining how things could change even now, every striking minute of your life.

Hope is trying to put everything together when everything is crumbling into shreds of disappointment. Hope is painful. Hope is wonderful. Hope is the bird that sings when the dawn is still awfully dark and eerily scary. 

Hope is a perspective. 
Hope is the one thing that will ever be.  

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