My friends are all believers.
I see them daily, offering their praise, extolling the blessings and virtues of the one.
I walk past the holy place on my way to work, and I see them within, tithing their hard earned currency in the hope that they will find ease and comfort to take them through the day.
And what a comfort it must be, for the faithful, to see their brothers and sisters sharing in the holy communion throughout the day. I find myself watching them with a certain envy. They seem so very sure of a truth, which, while obvious to them, I am unable to share.
And it is not as if haven’t tried.
It’s not as if I don’t want to believe.
Oh, how I wish I could.
Because it would be so much easier, when I am in doubt, or depressed, or in those moments when exhaustion threatens to bring me down, if I could simply bow my head and drink in the warmth and peace that so many others enjoy.
I have tried, I really have, but conversion is simply not an option.
And though my friends and neighbors, with naught but goodwill in their hearts, continue to proclaim the good news, I must find my salvation elsewhere. For the Dark Goddess which they worship, always leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
This weeks blog post brought to you by my new neighbors, who kept me up all last night with their loud party music. If ever I wished I could abide the taste of coffee, it is right now, as I sit here trying my best to focus on the empty page before me.