"It is better to be depressed than confused," she said. Boy, how that rings true. Confused is how I would describe myself in my 20s. It was a hot, frenzied, and relentless feeling.
Of course, there's a familiarity with depression. It’s a cold, yet welcome imposition—one that, despite its inexplicable nature, feels entirely understandable.
"Do you believe in God?"
"No, but I often pretend that I do, because it makes me happier. But this never lasts long, the pretense or the happiness."
This is exactly my situation now. I use religion as a means to communicate with my parents. My mother is alive, an unflinching believer. My father has gone beyond the veil. I use it to comfort myself because I'm truly alone, with no one to comfort me and confide in.
I attend mass either seething in my seat or furiously daydreaming. Is it an hour wasted? Maybe not.
"There probably are a few true things in the Bible, such as that the people who already have more than enough will be given still more.
The most religious people I know are stupid rich. You can't find another group who give more generously, pray more fervently, or study the Bible more diligently. Why is that? They have more time to devote? They're guilty about their wealth. It's a lovely cycle.