This is not a prayer

No, this is not a prayer, neither a cry for help nor 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 disillusioned, searching for my identity and purpose that I had to fulfill to be fully me.  I’m sorry for making you and my diary listen to those pathetic whines; I treated you more like a genie than God. And yet I’m glad nobody knows about those writing except for 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 to ever reflect me. I became the most self-absorbed little bitch that was obsessed with self-exploration on the emotional and intellectual level. I became 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 one could control bad deeds; they can be controlled, of course, but I didn’t realise that people aren’t good. I was fifteen when my first set of beliefs fell apart.

For a minute, I was a nihilist, but it almost killed me. My belief in existentialism built me up in terms of becoming 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 principle had escorted me for a very long time until I wasn’t sure anymore. It felt like I was succumbing to something. I was becoming weak, and 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 can’t be what I am not?

I learned 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. The 21st century’s mind is frighteningly nebulous, with the range of choices paralysing our ability to make decisions. We suddenly want so much, it’s unbelievable.

The only thing that hasn’t changed is that we can’t simply have it; we have to earn it – self-explanatory. It’s an opportunity and the dependence on freedom that will make love less likely to happen, despite the spark that we may feel for each other. We are so preoccupied with ourselves. We no longer think of what we have; we have become greedier. The 21st century comes with so many attractive ideas that make us want to “live” life to the fullest. (This excludes love.) This is the era of the millennials.

There is nothing wrong with living life to the fullest, except that we seem to postpone love and even risk losing it just to meet our goals. We have to work harder than the baby boomers because there is no way we can save money like they did or get a mortgage when we have debt.

I hope I won’t ever have to look back and see a ton of mistakes.

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’s free from evil and deceit. Until now, I see you as a prop to people who 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. And if I ever fall in love, I will think of you.

Fourteen years later, I thought of you; there’s nothing more to it.

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