Honesty

     I find I have a difficult time believing in anything. And not just in religion, for religion is not the only thing requiring belief. It wasn't always this way with me. And it isn't new. I do wonder though, how often this occurs in others around me. I find that many people seem to be able to believe in all sorts of things. I also find them unable to believe in particular things, betraying their injuries and tendencies. I on the other hand simply process. I don't believe in anything, instead I place hope in my inclinations and ignorance. This isn't an ideal; it's simply what I've become, having broken down belief after belief throughout the years of my life. I destroy, but not like one might think. In Cormac McCarthy's "Blood Meridian," the devil carries around a journal and records each thing that he encounters on his travels, birds, pieces of armor, and so on. One night, a travel companion asks him why he does this. The devil replies that he is insulted by the freedom of birds, that they fly without his permission. By recording, by knowing, each thing that exists, he will be able to control all existence. Birds will no longer fly without his permission. For me, nothing is able to come before me without being understood. I don't see things for the sake of any ideals, they instead are seen for the ideals that they hold at the same time as they are seen for what they are within this world. I destroy, rather than control. I'm not insulted by the freedoms of the ignorant, I instead hold only to honesty. And in truth, I hope for things that I can't destroy. I'd like for things to come up against honesty and not be destroyed. And when I do discover things that aren't destroyed, I'm able to love them because I know they are something worth loving. I'm able to love them honestly, which isn't to adore them, but to know them, honestly. This is what I've become; belief has yet to endure honesty.