Thursday, September 30, 2010

Drowned by Faith

Oh but I just want you to know that I don't believe in your superstitions. There's nothing there but empty thoughts and hollow promises; nothing tangible at all. You may argue that that's the point of believing: it's not faith if you can see it. Yet I can't stand here and watch you get taken in by foolery; I need something better to believe in. So let me tell you about my faith.

I believe that one day there'll be a mass revolution. People taking to what they feel, what they want, instead of cowering in the corner clinging to ideals while the whole world crashes down around them, trying to take comfort in the way things "should" be, rather than what they are. I believe they'll all rise against the accepted and forge a new way for the future, where it doesn't matter if something seems impossible; they'll try for it anyway. There'll be a time where rebellion ceases to be a cause, and becomes a way of life. A time where people start being instead of wondering and dreaming; taking leaps instead of steps towards their goals.

"But that isn't faith. That's already happening," you say to me. And I reply, "Exactly."

Yet there's more. I believe that someday there'll be someone who will lead me alone down to the sand as the sun sinks into the sea, and I'll let them, even though I hate the sand, simply because it's them. It won't matter what happened before we got there, what happens while we're there, or what will happen afterwards. The point is, it will all have happened.

You look at me quizzically, as though you don't understand.
"It's faith if there's no evidence that it will occur," I explain. You look away, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps uncaring; who knows? Clearly, you're another of the six billion to cross off the list.

So stop burning your candles for me, stop whispering your prayers, stop dabbling in an old maid's witchcraft. It's all drowning in the light of something stronger.

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