THE OPUIM OF HOPE

Of all the words in the English language the one I am least comfortable with is hope.

Hope is as tangible as hot air, as solid as candy floss and, we are constantly told, as essential as oxygen. “You must have hope,” people intone, seeking to press a promissory note into your hand, redeemable at some unspecified date in the future.

People living crappy lives all over the world either live in hope, or are exhorted to do so. Politicians and priests are the primary sellers of hope; jam tomorrow, the meek inheriting the Earth. Hope indeed being the main product sold by religion*:-


                         'His Oath, his covenant,his blood
                          support me inin the whelming flood.
                          When all around my soul gives way,
                          he then is all my hope and stay.'1
 

With these lullabies and daydreams life is made more tolerable. Hope, like a lottery ticket, the opium of the people.

Now I hope that civil liberties are better defended in this country in the  future than they have been in the recent past, though I think I would be better doing something about it than just hoping.

 The ruling elites of all countries are more than happy for the poor to hope for better days to come. What frightens them is the possibility that they may act on their desires in the present, that they might choose to do something to make these dreams come true.

So the next time the priest or politician comes peddling hope, you do what you will, for my self I will send them away with a flea in their ear.  


1 My hope is Built, words by Edward Mote, 1797-1874 
 
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