At seventeen, I spent a month in India with friends. We had a grand time traveling, seeing sights, immersing ourselves in a new cultural experience. 

    I loved the shopping. I bought a beautiful eggplant purple sari with gold threads, a matched pair of hand-carved sandalwood necklaces, other trinkets and souvenirs.

    Everywhere I looked, there were beggars. Poor blokes who couldn’t earn a living, either by virtue of handicap or caste or some other mystery.

    Their blank faces haunted me. Especially the adults. The children were bubbling, excited, even a little sly. But the adults? They had hollowed eyes. Vacantly accepting their cruel existence.

    I could almost reach out and touch the hopelessness. Stroke and caress it. Hope’s absence was physical. Hopelessness flowed out into the streets and covered everything. It was in the air, breathable.

    Hope. It’s what keeps me going. What wakes me in the morning. Hope that today will be a good day. Today I’ll accomplish something of value.

Today I will fulfill my dreams, or maybe just one of them. This day will bring something new and exciting. Or perhaps just bring me to safe sleep tonight.

    Hope. It’s the currency of living.  Without it I’m empty. Vacant. Blank.
I hope for a future that is better than the present. I hope for an end greater than my beginning. I hope for sunshine and happiness. I hope…

What do you hope for?