We question our faith when it seems to fail us.
But most hardly think twice when things go our way.
We turn to our faith when we are in dire situations.
Yet we forget to give thanks or think in similar terms when the sun decides to shine on our days.

We are cognitively selective.
We choose the aspects of an entity that positions us most comfortably in our realm of understanding of the world. We choose aspects that would make us glitter with society. Anything that runs foul of a general consensus is rebellion, to be cast aside as if it matters not.

I find it thus unsurprising yet always funny that people of religion pick the segments of their holy scriptures or rules to follow, discarding those they think irrelevant or useless.
"Homosexuality is bad because our book says so, says it is unnatural, and we must at all cost preserve what our book teaches us."
Yet, they think that parts allowing for selling of wives or children are barbaric, old-fashioned, they don't follow them anymore because it's not right, unfair.
Way to go, holy scripture supremacy.

I will argue this just to spite blind-faith.
If your God is all knowing and far-seeing, surely He would have foresaw the future and had either made rules that will forever be relevant, or insist on utter faithful, zealous trust on His words that he sends down through his various means. Will that allow you to break away from what He has laid down, one that He surely would have altered by his many means if He had intended so?

"The rules are too numerous, we can't follow them all."
"You can't expect God to lead us like ragdolls."
"So-and-so says this about the Book, so-and-so must be right."

The matter of fact is, religion has to change and evolve to fit the times and be relevant, or risk being swept away and obliterated by the waves of time. I am not merely saying this, you can see it in Christianity (one of the most relevant religions in the modern world because of the flexibility of some of their more charismatic followers), Buddhism and to a certain extent Islam. (surely there are more, but I can't substantiate the others, thus I dare not advance beyond.)

At the end of the day, I stay true to my believe that religion is not about the words in scriptures nor blind faith in a system. It is about a personal relationship with an entity, a manifestation of a person's believe systems and understanding and faith. It is about morals and social norms and the climate of our beings. It is about the make-up of who we are, and what we are.

Religion can be used as an excuse for war because of the hindsight of people in their understanding of religion as a rigid dogma, one where transgressions must be punished wholeheartedly. Such hindsight allows people to perceive that religion can be defined by a word.

I think that is sad. By defining one's religion with a word merely draws boundaries of claim for your faith. You are expressly thus saying that your religion is not overarching, that your God is not all-loving. That your God has to compete for space with other similarly spatially restricted faiths. You are saying that your God is not all-powerful. You are saying that once one steps out of that small margin you yourself had delineated for your God, your God ceases to exist in the heart of that person.

If that is religion, I am more than happy to be so minimally involved with it.

Surely that cannot be it. A perfect system of faith revolving around a higher-being only makes sense if it has no lines drawn in the soil to separate between men. That can only exist if people realise that God is personal, existing in our hearts the day we achieve consciousness, and not merely something once written on parched leaves and handed down from human master to human disciple who then hands it down again to their disciples. Hand me downs get tattered, withers. It is not perfect, not impregnable to time. But a moral belief is inherent, immortal.

If a person kills another without intent, it will be manslaughter.
If a person kills another with intent, it's called murder.
If a person kills 10 persons with intent, it's still called murder.
If a person kills 2000 persons with intent, it should still be called murder.
And the person with that intent must be labelled a murderer.
Why should that last act be any different than the others to be allowed the façade of 'war'?
No, they are murderers, all of them.
In the name of their brothers, their daughters, their God.
Doesn't matter.
Murderers.
All of them.

Intelligence is a beautiful thing.
Coupled with imagination, the horizon's but a word.
You can change the world.
But throw in charisma, and it becomes something extremely dangerous, precarious.
It's a delineation between a Gandhi and a Hitler.

Beautiful flight, eternal flames.
Power beyond your wildest imagination.
The phoenix is one of the most pitiful creatures ever.
It relives its death forever.
A pain that never ceases.
The breakdown that loops around the neck of the undying soul.

They say the eyes.
They're like windows into our souls.
But it was created with the lids that forever blinks.
Coy? Not so much.
It's to hide the times when the soul needs to stop pretending.
Wake up.
We're imperfect, released from the workbench without updates available.
We're walkmans without ever the discman to allow the ipods.

New York.
In a blink.

Tokyo.
In a gasp.

Turkey.
In a word.

Home. Home. Home.

"Do you believe in fate?"

"Mmmm...why do you ask? I don't know. I don't think so." He replied as he scribbled a sentence onto the sheet of paper in front of him.

"I think fate exists. I'd like to believe it does. It's such a beautiful notion."

"Mmmm..."

"I believe all around us, God's angels are about. They keep an eye on everyone of us, they make dreams and good things happen to good people. And also, they carry daffodils on their breaths."

Berg put his pen down and took his glasses off. He turned to her, the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon, his Bho, and sighed. The sun's rays gushing through the window behind her outlined her silhouette. She was standing on a hip, one hand on her waist, the other holding her painter's brush that dangled in the air. Her white blouse was smeared with spatters and splashes and dots and dashes. He could see some yellow paint at the tips of her soft, wavy brown hair. She pouted at him.

"Well. Sweetie. You know I'm not a religious person. I believe, we all get what we work for. We decide on what we want, we work our asses off for it. Obstructions plop in front of us, we think of a way to remove it...with our objective always in sight. The strong and the wilful will eventually prevail. I don't believe that our lives have been written in stone before, I'd like to think I get to decide where I am heading, and that I can change the situation around me."

"But haven't you ever felt like...ever before...like, y'know. Like something's too good to be true? Like surely, it's a miracle or it's got to be God's hand at work or something..."

"Well, it's luck, I guess? It's a bonus in life, coincidences. I mean, things don't just happen for a reason. It's just the effects of the lives of other people around us, that creates a situation that seem to benefit us to a greater extent."

"But, then...life's so boring. And sad. I prefer my theory. I believe there's an angel guiding me. Like he's there all the time to give me strength when I'm down, he lets me learn to be happy, he allows me to be sad. He guides me and puts me back on the path that fate has in stored for me, you know? Of course, he doesn't move me along. Like duh. I still have to walk the road. But, he protects me. He is fate."

"Mmhm..."

"Fate brought me you."

"Mmmm? What do you mean?"

"I mean, think about it."

"I'm listening."

"Well, do you remember how when we first met?"

Berg smiled.

"Surely it's fate right? Surely you couldn't have just appeared out of no where, tripped and drop that ice-cream in front of me and destroyed my shoes. My favourite ice-cream too. And Imogen was playing in the store. And you, you looked so lovely. It was...so magical. Like fate had intended it. Like fate had wanted me to walk there along the same time as you, it was as though fate had made you trip. It was as though fate made sure I was feeling so relaxed and happy and at ease just for that one moment. For that one moment when fate wanted me to fall for you."

Berg gazed at Bho, who was still at that pose, her hand with the brush carelessly scratching at her chin, leaving a small smear of red.

"Sweetie. I love you so much, and because of that, that day wasn't fate."

Bho frowned.

Berg sighed, and smiled meekly.

"It wasn't fate, Bho darling. It was me. I wish I had told you earlier, but I thought it would have made me look so silly. Fate didn't make those things happen, I did. I saw you once in the subway on the way to work one day, when I had to send my car in for a repair. That was when I began to realise that you took the same sub at the same time every working day. I continued to take the sub even though I had my car back. Just to see you. I always hear Imogen playing into your ears. I noticed how often you eat ice-cream. And a particular one too. Once, I followed you out of the sub and watch you walk to work. That how I knew where you worked."

Bho pouted and then frowned a little, her nose crinkled slightly.

"Yes, yes. I'm creepy. But it was you, I can't help it, aight?"

She smiled.

"Anyway, after a couple of weeks of that, I decided I needed to speak to you, take you out for dinner or something, whatever. I stalled my request for a transfer to another branch till next week, I prepped up, and left earlier. I went to make sure the store was playing Imogen after I had bought the ice-cream. You were spot on time. Haha. I was supposed to walk up to you and say something like I had bought an ice-cream and got the other extra, and thought you looked like a person who enjoys macadamia so you should share it with me. When I was walking to you, a boy scooted pass me on his bicycle. I swerved to avoid him, tangled my legs, and fell to the ground, plopping the ice-cream on to your shoes. Sorry baby. But I sure was lucky you didn't think me an idiot. I was thinking to myself that if I didn't talk to you that day, I will have to leave for Mosatti the next, and then I will never see you again. So Bho baby, you see. It's not fate that brought me to you. It's me, wanting you more than anything in the world, that brought me to you."

Bho sighed. And put her brush down. She covered the distance between them in 4 strides and cupped Berg's face in her palms, "Sweetie, if fate wasn't involved, you wouldn't have found me no matter how hard you tried."

Berg looked puzzled.

"I was feeling really down before I met you. Life wasn't going well. My paintings were not beautiful anymore. I was behind on rent. My mother passed away. My...God, it was just awful. I bought a bottle of painkillers the day before, and decided to down the bottle. I was a wreck. Popping the bottle open seemed to easy. As I raised the bottle to my mouth, I saw a butterfly flutter in. It landed on my palm. It was so pretty, it reminded me of the clip mum bought for me. I looked out into the horizon, and the sun was just rising. It was just so beautiful. Fate stalled me for another day, the same day a goofy man fell at my feet. Like fate just picked him up from nowhere and placed him in front of me. You know, I could have easily decided to not go to work that day to mourn. Or even died. But I thank God each day that I didn't, because then, you happened."

I have always had problems grasping the purpose of this life.
If I can't come to a state that would suffice for the time being, I'd feel oh so jaded and somewhat suicidal. Not literally, of course.

Being a person with little faith in the ultimate end proposed by the religions, I am far less secured in that front. Always looking for a place to stand, so that I can see far enough into the horizon and catch a glimpse of the end. Often, I wished I was less questioning and believed more in faith. I guess faith is one of the strongest...errr...strengths...religion has. It gives beings a peace of mind. A sense of knowing that there is indeed an end, in that this life that they now lead in not to be a mere empty shell.

It's a perplexing question for agnostics and atheists then. Each deals with the situation uniquely. Wasting life away, going all out to achieve immortality that this blog has so often expressed, living with inner peace, giving others peace.

At this stage in my life, I reckon inner peace will prevail in the battle within my sanctum. The simple things, stripped of the pretentiousness that this world offers on a silver platter, including those of religions. It's the simple act of breathing, and working for that breath.

I was just sitting at my window the other day as a thick snowfall graced Manchester. I had my trusting mug of coffee in my cupped hands. What would I want to do with my life at that point in time?

I'd give anything to be in Alaska, in the middle of a vast white land by some waterway of some sort, calm and still like the velvety night drapes that had just left; with unending rows of pine trees layering the backdrop. Fresh coldness blanketing everything. The simple chilled air seems spiked with life itself, reinvigorating a sleepy shell. Work the day away splintering logs for firewood, hunt in the wilderness for my dinner, scrape the snow away from the woody cabin I had built with my own bare hands, strong and slightly bloodied by the cuts on my palms. I would heat the snow for water, and the fire shall be my warmth, and a candle and the stars will light my forthcoming darkness.

At the end of all of the day's labour, tired and famished, I will wash up, get into some warm undies, sink into a deep hearty warm meal by the fire. Top if off with a mug of nice coffee, reading a good book by the comfy sofa just feet away from the hearth. The stars will be my company. The wolves will sing for me. The trees will dance with me. The waters will cradle me. I will fall slowly to sleep at the couch, the soft down layer keeping me warmly snuggled. I will dream of nothing, as the aurora blankets my inner sanctum.

Isn't that what we're doing with life anyway? Just simplified into a day's worth, everyday.

only nineteen
a quarter to death.
white shoes black
from dusty Seth.
is it him
or are they stones?
that thing inside
inside her bones.

She had to know. She had to find out. She found her legs needing to move towards the box. Her hands needing to open the lid. And her eyes thus needing to peer into the darkness.

only nineteen
a lifetime to breathe.
red heart black
from dusty wreath.
it is Pa
it is no stone,
that thing now missing
missing from her bones.

She closed the lid. She pushed the man aside. She took up the shovel like how her soldier Pa had once done. She shoved it into the dirt, and she heaved it into the hole. She buried her Pa, all alone.