Every year on Holy week I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs: I WANT TO BELIEVE.
Sometimes I do, I really do want to believe. I wish I had the comfort of religious faith. I wish I had been brought up in an environment where magical thinking came naturally, where I could accept mythology as truth and believe the random horror of this world responds to a higher being's plan, one that I should not dare question because I am after all, a lesser being. But I wasn't brought up that way. I was brought up to believe this life is all we have, and that it is up to me to be the best person I can be, to make the most of my life and to try to live with integrity. I don't always succeed, but I try hard. And for the most part I am grateful that I grew up without spiritual crutches, except on days when I wish someone could lighten the weight of the world on my shoulders.