Shouldn't we Hope

Hope has been regarded quite profoundly by radical thinkers as a bardic, lyrical & baseless human value built upon unreasonable pretensions. Existentialism advocates that through hope humans seek to leap and deny the arbitrariness of life. In a universe where nothingness trumps humanity & logic seems desirable, hope is abstractly contrived. Hope can never influence fate. Hope, through a blind act of human confidence, seeks to explain everything. Thus as Albert Camus remarks "The absurd becomes God and the inability to understand becomes the existence that illuminates everything!!!"                                                                                                                                            I do not dismiss any of these charges. Hope in all its commonness has indeed been levied upon us by time or through ancestry. My wish is to rediscover hope as an understated gem of the human intellect. I do not wish to hold on to a blinding hope of vileness and ignorance.I do not wish for some great idea that will transcend my life and give it meaning or in other words simply betray it. I wish to hope for a coherent & indistinguishable recognition of the implacable grandeur of reality. My hope is that randomness is celebrated over importance & that the freedom that comes with unimportance is cherished.

Shouldn’t we hope?

And what else is there but hope

Though Hope doesn’t make us great or wise

It makes us weaker, inferior, susceptible to humanity

Hope transcends into faith

It is a deceitful agreement 

 making hopelessness bearable.

Yet, today I choose to hope.

I am opening more doors today

For I do not have strength enough to deny

I cannot choose reluctance over irrelevance

I cannot deny myself

I am too real, too abstract to escape

And thus I hope I can respect reality in it's entirety

I hope I can engage and confront

I hope I have Hope.

I choose to cry today

For in tears I see the hope of trust.

A hope that I can accept what is,

Universally inexistent, yet undeniably mine

This love and this gladness

This anxiety and this revulsion.

I hope my happiness betrays my disappointment

That my poetry never abandons my tears.

I choose to pray today

For in faith I see the hope of belief

A belief that I can be greater than my fears

That knowledge will not be accompanied by apathy

That worthiness willn’t be worshipped over tranquillity

That prayer willn’t be born out of isolation, escapism

I hope faith becomes our spectacles and not our eyes

I hope life grants us all, Simplicity of hope

I have a choice today to make

A choice having no varying consequence

for my distinction lies not between hope and despair

but between beginnings, ends & exclamations

I choose my life over my existence

Existence is forgetfulness;it is stagnant,perforated,lacks virtue

Life is fluid, It is a miraculous engine of love

My hope is to become life, to become a mad poet's delight.

IN A QUEST FOR INSPIRATION

It's amazing what a moment of emptiness will do to a suffocated mind. I use the word "suffocated" not to portray the bemusement of our everyday lives but rather to emphasize the sheer blindness of a polarized life. I have been accused in the past for being lousy in my implications & in-idiosyncratic in my writing & I thoroughly accept the latter. I do find it very rigorous to pen down personal experiences & try to overshadow it by personifying the "wonders of our being".Even as I scribble down this acceptance, I feel a very strong urge to replace the "I's" with "Humans".But I am determined to let the "I" take over at least for this solitary instance & so have put my vanity to rest in order to prevent any stiffened statements.

My indifference to conclusions & convictions is justified by the fact that I am an inspiration driven machine. It is the very fulcrum that modulates, what is an unpredictable thought process. Being uninspired is a very painful & exhaustive experience for me. (though a confession that must be made here is that at one odd instance my state of in-inspiration turned out to be nothing more than just an upset stomach)
Perhaps My state of in-inspiration is only an elevated expression for motion sickness in the grand journey of awareness, Just a sudden shock of realization of that awareness being effaced away brutally by the deafening scarcity of answers & the humongous abundance of perplexities. But just as my self-attested predictions only allow me casual escapes from such meekness, even so, my relatively idiotic personal worries raise equally absorbing questions.
As these idiotic worries deepen, I have to put the more cumbersome ones behind. So for once skipping the malleable questions like "whether our existence is a part of a great design or just some randomness in the whole cosmological romanticism" I will move towards the more general questions that a 17.5-year-old is supposed to raise obviously teenage crisis.

As I bid farewell to my childhood, seeing it struggle to co-exist with a rational & more critical mindset, I feel closer to being "normal" than I ever thought I was. I have had flashes of emotions that I believed could only be garnered in homo-sapiens of the "inferior" quality.Emotions like loneliness,attachment & penance.However, the one that has lingered for an atrocious period of time is that of Loss. With the curtains of my childhood drawing to a close, I feel to be losing out on my birthright of being unreasonable. It is an exceptionally intimidating & daunting prospect for me to always talk sense as it stakes the very vicissitudes of my consciousness.No wonder I always fancied Kahil Gibran's lines from "Sand & Foam" for myself "Half of what I say is meaningless but I say it so that the other half may reach you."I gather that my reluctance to be reasonable itself simplifies my state of in-inspiration. Perhaps it is not something as complex as searching for significant reasons to exist but something as elementary as being unsure about what to do next or just an ungraceful & despairing day of life.

Even though I cannot shower flowers of in-obstinacy or purpose on my peculiar morality of being positive, simplistic, happy, unjustified & inspired(the in-inspired moments are strong but negligible)I can always fabricate realities for myself & these realities are strong enough to serve my buffet of intrinsic rebellions. Others may simply call it a lie but then who can claim to know the truth.
Amidst all this mayhem, my fundamental chaos, however, remains duly characterized. The transient ambiguity of existence always seizes to trouble me through its mist of horrible familiarity & fatiguing irrelevance. Yet, when the cosmic fairy presents before me the lollipop of poetic ambience as a re-compensation against the eccentricities of life & the insignificance of anything & everything then despite having the knowledge of the lollipop being just a substance of momentary ecstasy, I sin by grasping it with bond hands& dwell merely on an extensive exaggeration of some lunatic Poet's delight.