Whilst I’ve been working on The God Metaphor, a text which originally was meant to have very little to do with religion, but the imagery just seemed to crop up out of the ether, I have found myself looking at my own beliefs. Now, they were, and probably still are, very simply; like those of a child simplifying theological queries he cannot understand.
I believe in nothing: not in God, nor Allah, nor Tarot, not in family or society or even fucking Beatles. Since I was the child sitting in an assembly hall considering how idiotic my peers muttering the Lord’s Prayer were, I haven’t found anything to honestly believe in. Since then, I have preferred to focus on texts which offer some security, that prove to me in basic logic, in primary school thought, that God is either dead or could never existed at all. Of course, I am not an idiot, I know that that is a fact, but I don’t feel as though it is something necessary of belief.
What I, somehow, managed to work out a few weeks ago, whilst delirious with exhaustion but determined to finish the chapter, was that I want to believe in God. Whether this is simple atheism muttering to me that, in order to believe in such a thing, one must be an idiot and idiots are tortured by their own thoughts less, therefore I would be happier; or the remnants of history claiming that all those who came before could not possibly have been wrong, could not have laboured under delusions given to them by wealthy paedophiles and haters of beauty, hidden beneath robes they had not earned and draped in finery they did not deserve.
If I could take away the knowledge that I am nothing when compared to the world, as the world is nothing compared to the galaxy, then I would. Honest self-obsession could reign and I could be content in the knowledge that I am above all others, that the pig in the field has nothing in common with me, that the monkey in distant jungles is not so close to my own design that I could learn to love it.
I want to believe in God, in Tarot, in spirituality. I want to be a gullible fool, to think that my actions are not my own, to surrender to some all-knowing presence. I want Orwell to be right, I want Slavery to be Freedom, I want to bear no responsibility, I want to be a cog in some unimaginable machine, a line in some unknowable design.
But, whilst I may at times be guilty of irrationality or even simplicity, I am not idiot enough to believe in anything beyond the truth. Cards cannot tell me the future, there is no stolen deity above commanding my movements; there is no design for any of us. We are all carbon with delusions of grandeur, with a delirious hallucination known as personality, and, though I might hate to steal such a lyric, we are all Dust in the Wind. Nothing more, nothing less.
And what rights have we to demand that we are more?
None, of course, excepting sheer, unconquerable narcissism.