When I was a child, I used to believe in wishes and ‘all your dreams come true’. One time, in primary school, my best friend was singing in a mini talent show, and I crossed my fingers wishing that she would win, and she did, another time we had to watch a boring documentary or something and I crossed my fingers wishing the tv would break, I honestly used to believe that wanting and wishing hard enough caused those things to happen.
Then as I got older, my belief shifted to ‘the power of prayer’ and miracles, always believing things would ‘get better’ for both the mentally physically ill. I never really has, not through ‘faith’ anyway. I think this mental shift I belief ruined me, my expectations increased, but the truth didn’t. People lie, I learn that everyday. But realising how foolish I was for believing in something ‘just because’. If ‘the power of prayer’ worked, so many prayers or even wishes would be answered by now, think about it, how many times and for how long have you wished for something you truelly wanted more than anything, and it never came, that’s how I know, there’s no one listening. There’s no magic, no miracles. (and my other observations, experiences and research led me to believe in nothing. But for now i just wanted to share this)
And still, knowing all this, I still wish (ha) that I believed in something. Now, I believe in nothing, no karma, friendship, promises, people, politicians, myself, nothing.
2 comments
I guess you believed that someone would read your post and comment after the efforts that you put into it.
Maybe there’s a little faith left for humanity, for you.
I used to make wishes like that… in fact, I still do. It’s a part of the magical fairyland that is childhood- some people’s are more like dark horror tales, and others more generic, but children are still similar in a sense. They believe in Santa Claus and magic tricks.
We will always have a child inside us no matter how old we are.
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Here’s my story.
I once was suffering from an absolutely horrific and torturous bout of eczema: sores seeping, obliterated yet still itching red skin (let’s NOT get any more graphic than that, just to let you know how but externally and internally horrific and traumatising it was). I would lie on my bed all day and scream and cry and wail. I lost my eyebrows and looked (to myself) barely human. I self-harmed using fingernails.
Before I went to a disturbed sleep I prayed even as my childish faith in religion seeped away.
“If you’re real, heal me. Make me beautiful again- no I don’t need to be pretty. I just want to be a normal girl. With good skin. A groomed face. Someone that someone out there will actually want. Stop this disease.”
Two years later, here I am. No one, if I do not tell them, will know of this part of my past. I look normal. My skin is flawless at the moment. In fact, I had gotten used to this.
It’s funny how we can get used to almost anything.
Until we get to the point of wanting to end this thing, whatever it is this time.
Yes. Miraculously. But not always.