I do not place my hope on the shoulders of all who gone before me. My hope does not come from the stories of yore, the hopes of ancestors, the ideals of those who have gone before me. But my hope is backed by the truth of the past and the complimented by the hopes of my fathers.
My hope is present. My hope is not dated and antiqued; filled full by others’ dreams. My hope is fraught with doubt and bombarded by the “truth of today.” This hope, the fuel that spurs my heart, should not be explained away by science. It is not scientific and therefore, my hope is not an equation; it is not an organ in me but still very much united with me, a running current that connects me to others.
Strip me down and find the source of this hope; how can I walk each day and breathe each day without hope? I would be nothing less than a cadaver.
My hope stems from what I know; it is not based on the pseudo-faith of others who merely use hope for an identity but have no idea of the life that hope gives.
Why explain my hope away? What is it to you if I believe because I do? Why would you try to destroy this?
Who destroyed you?
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