I was 10 year old and I stood in my grandmother’s living room when I last believed that things would be okay. My aunt was checking on me, seeing if I was up to the challenges ahead of us. I said that I understood that the future would be difficult, but that “good would prevail” at the very end. That things were going to be okay.
24 hours later, I learned that things were not so simple, as I stood crying for all my little worth in my father’s embrace, after being told that my mother was now dead and I’d have to grow up without her. The ground shook and cracked and I fell, and beneath me, I saw hell opening in anticipation for the world to descend.
I have since lost my belief that ‘good’ and ‘bad’, or ‘evil’ if you will, are higher forces that exist on a higher level than our own conscience. Where before I found hope in the idea that there was a higher force driving us towards the everlasting happy end, I now recognize it for what it is: A good chunk of wishful thinking, made believable by the desperation of a mother’s child.
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