Hope, that elusive, flirty bitch!

He was low on ammunition, fuel and his spirit was damp and then a stray streak of hope tried to flirt with him ; he hoped he’d still win and get back alive, hoped his cigarettes werent damp and broken. He shrugged off that hope, hope was nonsense. hope after all was just an industrial instrument wise men used to run the foolish world. Democracy ran on that hope of better tomorrow fed to commoners at intervals, Cosmetics ran on that hope of beauty, life ran on that hope of getting better someday semehow, dying ran on the hope for some more time while wise men sold their medicines.

He was a soldier , to him that hope was a bitch walking along that nosy, haughty , rich bastard , the wise!
he wont be wise, hed just be alive.

And then, he hoped to be alive!

He was weather beaten, years etched on his skin, skin as parched as as the field he struggled ploughing, he had left a bottle of water under that banyan tree, he was athirst but he wouldn’t drink, that was too precious and he would rather save it for some while, he couldn’t hope for a lavish life, couldn’t hope for comforts, he hated hoping, that hope was unyielding. He knew she was an elusive bitch, he wouldn’t embrace!

He was a farmer, he’d rather just be alive, alive enough to see the rain pouring, see his crop alive. He fought his hunger, his thirst, his cravings, his hopes and did what he could do best, stay alive. He had seen days, years like these and knew he would succumb to that bitch, he didn’t own his fate, he couldn’t summon the rain.

He was tired and beaten of worrying about his children he’d keep alive even at a cost of his own, he needed an asylum, a cloak of comfort, a slumber of bliss where he could forget all his struggles.

He kneeled to hope, hope of rain and better days, he succumbed.

He was human, he didn’t own his fate, his entire existence was circumstantial, his everyday life hung by a slender thread, he’d hope that thread Stayed intact.

Hope was a haughty bitch he knew yet the man wouldn’t let go of the eroticism of succumbing to her asylum. He needed her by his side every day!

Published by Oliveblood57

A dreamer, an architect, a mother, an army wife, a cook, a home maker, a traveller celebrating my everyday life to the hilt and making opinions as it goes

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