Dear God

Now, this is not a prayer, neither a cry for help nor a cry for mercy, but a simple conversation where you don’t have to say a thing (as you never do anyway).

You probably remember me praying to you at the age of twelve or thirteen, when I was still disillusioned, searching for who I was and the purpose that I had to fulfill to be fully me.  I am sorry for making you and my diary listen to those pathetic whines; I treated you more like a genie than God. And yet I am glad nobody knows about them apart from you and my diary.  And you know why? It’s because I don’t believe in you; neither do I believe in my journal. And yet, the idea of you two helped me dump those unpleasant thoughts and feelings that kept coming back. They still do.

Then I lost interest in you reasonably soon and only concentrated on writing, which was the only way to know myself better. I couldn’t see you, and I couldn’t hear you, so there was no way for you ever to reflect me. So I became the most self-absorbed little bitch that got obsessed with self-exploration on the emotional and intellectual level. I got addicted to the smell of old books, and my fingers were always looking to hold a pen. I spoke to myself on paper and the people that I created in my head. They interacted with me on paper. They were real, but you never were.

You watched me become a punk, a wanna-be anarchist who believed that anarchy could function if all people applied Immanuel Kant’s concept of goodwill because I used to think that anarchy wasn’t necessarily chaos. I thought that all bad deeds could be controlled; they can be controlled, of course, but I didn’t realize that people aren’t good. I was fifteen when my first set of beliefs fell apart. For a minute, I was a nihilist, and I realized that it almost killed me. My belief in existentialism built me up in terms of being who I wanted to be. But then someone taught me the values of pure individuality, and I made the concept my own. I didn’t even believe in destiny anymore, and I was certain not to leave anything to chance. It was I that made things happen and nothing else. My existential mind was hungry for meaning. This notion had escorted me for a very long time until one day; I wasn’t sure anymore. It felt like I was succumbing to something, as though I was becoming weak, as many unpleasant things had happened, but in hindsight, it was all for the better. So I put it all back into question: Maybe there is something out there? And maybe I cannot be what I am not.

I learnt more about myself by sinking into temptation, and I grew stronger by letting go. I got to know my heart that has not yet loved truthfully. I have never loved my diary, and neither will I ever love you. Sometimes I don’t even know what keeps us together as human beings because the idea of love is just so vague and suspicious. The 21st century’s mind is frighteningly nebulous, as the range of choices has paralyzed our ability to make decisions. We suddenly want so much, it’s unbelievable. The only thing that hasn’t changed is that we cannot simply have it; we have to earn it – self-explanatory. It’s an opportunity and the dependence on freedom that make love less likely to happen, despite the spark that we feel for each other. We are so preoccupied with ourselves. We no longer think of what we have; we have become greedier, as the 21st century comes with so many promising ideas that attract us on the spot and make us want to “live” life to the fullest, love excluded. There is nothing wrong with that, is there, except that we seem to postpone love, even risk losing it to accomplish what we want out of life. I hope I won’t ever find myself in a moment where I look back and realize I have made a mistake. And for some strange reason, this makes me think of you again. If I ever believe in you, I’d like to imagine you as a hippie that does not know wrath and deceit. But up to now, I see you as a prop to people that need someone to talk to before bedtime.

I’ve always wondered whether one could make deals with you. But I suppose I’ve mistaken you for the devil. Or maybe I don’t know the difference. Some people find you—years and years later. But we’re not really getting wiser in this century. But if I ever fall in love, I will think of you. Fourteen years later, I just thought of you; there’s nothing more to it.

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