Wishful Thinking

I wholeheartedly wish that I could believe in a religion. It’s a depressing thought that I like everyone else on the planet will end up in the cold ground whether it be in an overpriced, plush coffin or as a handful of dirt. If I were to be approached by the devil himself, I would be more pleasantly surprised by the confirmed existence of heaven than the sight of hell. Or perhaps when I kick the bucket through one too many takeaways, I reincarnate as a mayfly I would end up wasting the few precious hours of life that I would have shitting myself with laughter at the reality of it all.

Growing up it was either too little Catholicism and Protestantism or too much, with an Italian family and Church of England primary school. It was there I went to church every Tuesday hosted by the vicar from the Scottish Highlands that preached more about Braveheart and the Scottish National Party than Christ, our saviour. It was a sobering piece of satire to realise the godly men of cloth were more human than anything. At age six, it was when my first rejections of authority began to grumble underneath the small and chubby surface.

Since then, it has been hard for me to believe in anything to a point where unlike my peers, even the socialist dynamite, Jeremy Corbyn, sets my teeth on edge. It’s like the moment as a child discovering that Santa Claus was invented by Coca-Cola to boost winter season sales and the world of whimsy collapses. Mind you, don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking religion and while I see it as whimsical and just another nice idea, it’s not that for everyone.

It’s a surprising comfort for billions from Jainism to Scientology, people are desperately searching for meaning in a world that seems to generate horrible scenarios like a cosmic, random number machine. While it’s becoming fashionable in the new world of scepticism to shit all over the faithful, people don’t seem to understand the enormous room for the supernatural in our lives. Personally, if I didn’t have a few unexplained ghost experiences under my belt, I would be laughing at the supposed nonsense of astrology like the rest of them.

The big bearded man in the sky isn’t for me but is for others and that’s okay. It’ll be a bit shit when my ambivalence lands me in a pit of sulphur but even then, I’d find some comfort in being wrong.

Wishful Thinking