I understand that searing desire to speak and to be heard. I have it too. As much as all of me yearns for proof and dismisses outright your beliefs for facts, there are times when I long for your faith. Things seem easier for you, somehow, and yet I know that faith in the unseen cannot be easy. Most of me thinks that you are wrong even as I envy your ability to converse, to ask, to praise, to plead.

In moments of utter loneliness I also reach out to the darkness, only to hear nothing; nothing but my own voice echoes back at me. So I sit here on my perennial fence, looking at you, but refusing to step forward to join you because I think that at the end of the day you are only talking to yourself, asking – yourself, praising – yourself, pleading with – yourself.

There is much in the world that science is yet unable to explain and yet faith is unable to explain it as well; nothing can explain some things and you ask too much of me. You ask me to believe and I cannot believe in something I cannot touch, cannot see, cannot hear, cannot feel.

I watch your conversations as you kneel, rise, sway, mutter, moan, sing, and I envy your belonging, for I belong nowhere, and with no-one. I feel as fragile as you feel, but my fragility is different from yours. Yours resides in your faith and in your community, but mine resides in me alone.

To me your conversations are all yesterday’s whispers, and they are lost in the wind, and gone forever, just as mine are. But while mine went unheard, I envy your belief that somebody heard yours.