Storytelling is one of humanity's most awe-inspiring, self-made treasures. To soothe one another, comfort our danger-roused brains, entertain the children, stay, we took reality by a leash and defined it, gave it names, played with it. Stories are so powerful that they shape entire generations, carve history like a playful summer shower turned flood, splitting the earth. The one match to reality's blatant and concrete sharpness is strong, mellow fiction to put temporary dots on the letters on the unknown and the mysterious. Stories are our drive to survive, our endless curiosity, and our our adoration for the world, bound into a legacy.
When I was a child, a story kept me afloat, as much as my obsession with it almost drowned me: it was the story of my religion. For my love of words, for my inquiries, for my sorrows, I had a masterpiece of complexities to occupy myself with. I read tales about the tales, and books on the book. I imagined it all. I tried to have a conversation with god all the time -because he exists all around, so he must be listening- and get him to let me know that he heard me. I didn't like asking things of him because I felt like I couldn't handle it if they never came to me, I just wanted him to see me, and, despite fully believing in his existence, constantly wanted proof of his presence. This, of course, backfired so terribly when I realized that my world was so devoid of God, yet so full of it. All I thought about all the time, every minute of the day in the back of my mind, was God, yet all around, no matter the time, God was nowhere to be found, only the ghost of guilt, desperation, and the naive and hopeful wish to be wrong, occupied the void to the brim. I abused my brain over the death of a story until I couldn't take it anymore, and set it aside altogether.
I remember the times I believed most: As if I'd witnessed magic, when witnessing my own willingness to have faith, I'd feel restless and happy, cool chested and full of light. I'd know of something nameless that I just could feel, a good thing. I'd fall from the incredible height of it then, and I still do. It was some sort of relief, excitement, anxiety, that someone or something will potentially have my back if I act just right; that I love what I'm learning and who I'm learning for, satiating my need to acquire enough knowledge and getting closer to God in both senses. It was just me trying. It was hope.
I resent the pointless chase, the promise no one really made, the illusion and the loneliness, but all of it made me adore and appreciate stories. It was an entire life, that bit. More than anything, I believe in people and what we can do. I believe in the lengths we will go to keep this life and what ever we decide is dear about it going. Now I think, when people feel the mightiness of god, and the grand and overwhelming emotion of being connected to something pure and great, isn't it always after having a conversation with themselves? A conversation where they lay out the week and say "Thank you. I'm sad. I'm tired. I need you. I love you."?
Is God a direct line to the soul?
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