Somewhere over the rainbow blue birds fly

The hope is the last thing left in Pandora’s box. The question that has always intrigued us is:

If the hope had been released, what would have happened?

When everything is gone, you are left with a glimpse of hope, keeping it until you are ready to move on. That striving to the hidden road’s end could be South of the Border or West of the Sun.

Faith is the name of hope, when we truly believe something better is coming. It gives us the strength to endure through the steepest dines of the deserted land. The risks take us to our finish line with the fuel of “Hope”. Even when everything is against us and our beliefs, we proceed, because we know the rainbow is going to show up after the long and dreadful storm.

The hope has two faces. It keeps us alive, but destroys us within while letting our imagination to create some impossible to happen situations. At some point, hope becomes our biggest enemy, quietly waiting for its next victim at the corner just to stab the knife in the heart. The murderer has to have the weapon to kill, and that weapon we create, indeed.

The life is unpredictable, and we have to gain the ability to learn when to end our hoping and start believing.

Why do we let our imagination to break our walls of reality?

The power of hope could be compared with the nuclear power. At one point, it can give us the energy needed, and on the other it can be devastating. It is on us to let hope to guide us to the South of the Border or to the West of the Sun.

 

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/* South of the Border is a song about Mexico. But what is west of the sun? Shimamoto called it hysteria Siberia and told one story: “Try to imagine this, you’re a farmer, living all alone on the Siberian tundra. Day after day you plow your fields. As far as the eye can see, nothing. To the north, the horizon, to the east, the horizon, to the south, to the west, more of the same. Every morning, when the sun rises in the east, you go out to work in your fields. When it’s directly overhead, you take a break for lunch. When it sinks in the west, you go home to sleep. In the winter they stay home and do indoor work. When spring comes, they head out to the fields again. Anyway, that cycle continues, year after year, and then one day, something inside you dies. Maybe nothing or maybe something in the west of the sun. At any rate, it’s different from south of the border.”– quoted from the Haruki Murakami’ s novel “South of the Border, West of the Sun” */

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