The End of Belief.
believe in me.
To believe. Is it really as simple as it sounds? Like blowing a bubble or opening a birthday present? It’s just supposed to happen. Belief. It’s a complicated thing for all the ease it rolls off the tongue with. And a pretty word, too. Nothing to suggest the raging turmoil such a word has created in society, in schools, in homes, and within ourselves.
And not even just the belief in God, though that’s the immediate thought, of course. I’ve never felt turmoil over my lack of belief in a higher power that plays with us like pieces on a chessboard. But belief in other things . . .
Well, that’s another story entirely.
When I hear that word, my thoughts do not go to religion. Peter Pan. Tinkerbell, specifically. Just a metaphor of the harm losing belief or extinguishing belief can cause. And then the happy conclusion of belief and naiveté and just knowing.
It’s hard to know things, to believe them. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is when you don’t believe anymore and you play along like you do. Because you never wanted to hurt him. You never wanted to see those dark brown eyes stare up at you, swimming in tears. His bottom lip trembling as he tries so hard to be strong, not to cry, not to beg. And you never wanted to hear his voice crack and see him completely fall apart as he manages to ask you why?
It’s all my fault, I suppose. The blame is entirely mine. I’ve played along so extensively that I’ve actually forgotten when the light went out, when I no longer loved you. I have no idea.
And, Christ, I want to love you. I told myself that at first, that I did. That I truly did love you and we were just going through that boring spot that all couples go through, that if I stayed it would all work itself out, that the light would come back.
It never did.
I’m so sorry, Brendon. I never meant to hurt you this way. If I could take it all back, I would. I’d continue to play along for your sake. It was just a moment of weakness.
I can’t go back in time and I can’t erase it. But please don’t think this hasn’t hurt me as much as it’s hurt you. I don’t believe in anything anymore.
And not even just the belief in God, though that’s the immediate thought, of course. I’ve never felt turmoil over my lack of belief in a higher power that plays with us like pieces on a chessboard. But belief in other things . . .
Well, that’s another story entirely.
When I hear that word, my thoughts do not go to religion. Peter Pan. Tinkerbell, specifically. Just a metaphor of the harm losing belief or extinguishing belief can cause. And then the happy conclusion of belief and naiveté and just knowing.
It’s hard to know things, to believe them. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is when you don’t believe anymore and you play along like you do. Because you never wanted to hurt him. You never wanted to see those dark brown eyes stare up at you, swimming in tears. His bottom lip trembling as he tries so hard to be strong, not to cry, not to beg. And you never wanted to hear his voice crack and see him completely fall apart as he manages to ask you why?
It’s all my fault, I suppose. The blame is entirely mine. I’ve played along so extensively that I’ve actually forgotten when the light went out, when I no longer loved you. I have no idea.
And, Christ, I want to love you. I told myself that at first, that I did. That I truly did love you and we were just going through that boring spot that all couples go through, that if I stayed it would all work itself out, that the light would come back.
It never did.
I’m so sorry, Brendon. I never meant to hurt you this way. If I could take it all back, I would. I’d continue to play along for your sake. It was just a moment of weakness.
I can’t go back in time and I can’t erase it. But please don’t think this hasn’t hurt me as much as it’s hurt you. I don’t believe in anything anymore.