I, While Living, Have Conquered the Universe
What is made from a man?
What is left, when all that is is boiled away, leaving nothing more than that which was there before there was anything to be? When it is distilled down to its truest form, beyond even the sense of form, until no word can truly encapsulate all that it is, while at the same time defining the nothing that it is not?
What is left to each of us when there is nothing else? When we sit on our couches alone, at home, late at night? When we play music, or watch movies, or swordfight, or plot, or heal, or murder? What is the nature of each thing we do, not in and of itself, but beyond all concept of self? The thing that makes us who we truly are, rather than what others would have us to be in their eyes?
It's simple.
It's HOPE.
The hope of things to come, of things yet to be, of things never thought, of things never done, of things done without question, and without quality; without alacrity, or without dread, without fear, or without turbulation, without joy, without others, or perhaps even without self. The hope of things done for one of us, or things done for all of us.
But most certainly, the hope of things. It is the hope which empowers legions, which gives meanings to symbols, and which shakes the world with the slightest nudge. The collective unconsciousness of the masses, that boiling overmind that slumbers yet, hoping and dreaming against something that is yet in coming, a state of being, or perhaps of not being, that transcends all barriers of right and wrong, good and evil, realizing that none exist.
Hope is all we are, and all we can strive to be. Everything else can be taken from us -- our dignity, our pride, even our lives... but our hope is the only thing that we cannot lose until we willingly relinquish it. And it is that which makes it so powerful.
It is that which makes us so powerful.
We are gods -- we can do anything. We can do it because we can dream it.
Because we hope it.
What is left, when all that is is boiled away, leaving nothing more than that which was there before there was anything to be? When it is distilled down to its truest form, beyond even the sense of form, until no word can truly encapsulate all that it is, while at the same time defining the nothing that it is not?
What is left to each of us when there is nothing else? When we sit on our couches alone, at home, late at night? When we play music, or watch movies, or swordfight, or plot, or heal, or murder? What is the nature of each thing we do, not in and of itself, but beyond all concept of self? The thing that makes us who we truly are, rather than what others would have us to be in their eyes?
It's simple.
It's HOPE.
The hope of things to come, of things yet to be, of things never thought, of things never done, of things done without question, and without quality; without alacrity, or without dread, without fear, or without turbulation, without joy, without others, or perhaps even without self. The hope of things done for one of us, or things done for all of us.
But most certainly, the hope of things. It is the hope which empowers legions, which gives meanings to symbols, and which shakes the world with the slightest nudge. The collective unconsciousness of the masses, that boiling overmind that slumbers yet, hoping and dreaming against something that is yet in coming, a state of being, or perhaps of not being, that transcends all barriers of right and wrong, good and evil, realizing that none exist.
Hope is all we are, and all we can strive to be. Everything else can be taken from us -- our dignity, our pride, even our lives... but our hope is the only thing that we cannot lose until we willingly relinquish it. And it is that which makes it so powerful.
It is that which makes us so powerful.
We are gods -- we can do anything. We can do it because we can dream it.
Because we hope it.