
(image taken from Tao Of Photography)
The mind could do no better. It wasn't built for profundity, and each time it touched upon the wondrous, it slid away, unable to find purchase. No, we do fine with wood-chips flying from the axe's bite, the dowels we drive home, the seeds we scatter, the taste of ale in our mouths, the touch of love and desire at our fingertips. Comfort doesn't lie in the mystery of the unknown and the unknowable. It lies in the home we dwell in, the faces we recognize, the past in our wake and the future we want for ourselves.
All this is what is solid. All this is what we grasp hold of. Even as we long for the other.
Was the definition of religion as simple as that? Longing for the other? Fuelling that wish with faith, emulating desires through rituals? That what we wish to be therefore is. That what we seek in truth exists. That in believing we create, and in creating we find.
By that argument, is not the opposite equally true? That what we reject ceases. That "truth" is born in what we seek. That we create in order to believe. That we find only what we have created.
That wonder does not exist outside ourselves?
By our belief, we create the gods. And so, in turn, we can destroy them. With a single thought. A moment’s refusal, an instant's denial.
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