I’ve reached a point in my life where the only thing I am certain of is that I have doubt. I doubt what I think, I doubt what I feel, I doubt what I say and do. I doubt my faith, I doubt my lack of faith.
I think, therefore I doubt. I doubt, therefore I think.
The clamor of my surroundings has moved from the external world into my internal one. Focusing is hard: when I start to move my attention to one area, another comes into focus: like seeing through broken glasses, discreet ideas keep fracturing and turning into new ones, brought in and out of focus by the smallest of shifts.
I am writing a symphony. Every day, I sit down at my computer and tear my ribcage apart. I then reach inside the gaping opening and dig until I find my heart, and then I pull it out, and squeeze every drop of blood out of my heart onto the digital paper, until my heart is dry and the page is wet. I replace my heart, and let it fill again with more blood as I attempt to arrange what is already spent into a meaningful sacrifice. And when I am done squeezing and arranging, and squeezing some more, I gently push my ribs back together and sew myself up until tomorrow. I am weary; I am poured out; I have become numbers inside a machine.
It’s an act of devotion, I think. To whom or what, I couldn’t say. My suspicion is that I am offering some devotion to humanity. Or maybe it’s a requiem, a mass for the dead. Forgive us, for we know what we do.
There’s a colorlessness that defies understanding, hidden in the deepest parts of the ocean. A whale that refutes all that we’ve ever known and believed. An apotheosis on open water, awaiting those intrepid enough to forsake the safety of land.
It’s calling me.